


Between Wind and Water

by Katarra



Series: Hannibal "Henry" Lecter IX [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A Lecter Family Vacation, Alpha Will, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attempts at Waterfowl Domestication, Author Didn't Research Boats and It Shows, Domestic Fluff, Family Feels, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Henry sleeps a LOT, Injured Child Character, M/M, Medication, Minor Medical Situations, Murder Family, Napping, Omega Hannibal Lecter, Past Mpreg, References to Canon-Typical Violence, Trauma, graphic depiction of injury, hannigram child POV, or it would be if they weren't on the run, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-14 04:59:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16033463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katarra/pseuds/Katarra
Summary: After almost losing everything, Hannibal “Henry” Lecter is grateful for the things he still has: a loving family, his dog, the open sea, clear skies… and a debilitating gunshot wound.Maybe he could do without that last one.Takes place directly afterAn Unexpected Guest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of reaching 1,000 kudos (!!!), I'm posting the epilogue that explores the aftermath of the first fic's events, dealing with resultant trauma and recovery, and what the future now holds for the Lecter family. 
> 
> A brief warning: Henry is very injured for the duration of this fic, and his injuries are described in detail at times.

After being roused once during the evening to eat a bowl of soup, Henry slept through to the morning. He woke to gentle fingers touching his arm as Papa tried to stealthily remove the IV without disturbing him. Henry winced when he looked down at the tiny needle in his arm and was grateful when Papa covered his eyes with a large hand while he carefully pulled it out. He couldn’t see it anymore, but his mind invented all sorts of terrible sensations that it _could_ have felt like, which was just as bad.

IV dealt with, Papa removed his hand and smiled down at Henry. “Good morning. Think you can handle a real breakfast today?”

Henry pushed himself to a sitting position as best he could using only his left arm and was grateful when Papa helped right him.

“I think so?” Henry’s stomach chose that moment to growl so loudly, he was sure his insides were trying to invert themselves. And something _besides_ soup sounded incredible right about now. “Does that mean I can get out of bed?”

“For a short while, at least,” Papa said.

Happy that he’d be able to see something outside of his room—maybe even the sea, wouldn’t that be a treat—Henry slowly swung his legs to dangle over the edge of the bed, grimacing a bit at the soreness he felt all over. The worst was centered around his shoulder, of course, but his ribs and gut smarted plenty. He reached down and lifted up the bottom hem of his pajama top to get a peek at the bruises there, see what color they’d turned and how far they spread.

Across the room, Papa shut a drawer sharply. “As if the bullet wound was not enough, every article of clothing I took away while seeing to your care revealed more and more bruises, more injuries.” He sighed, moving to sit on the bed with Henry after dropping a pile of neatly folded clothes onto the bedspread. “How is your breathing? Until we have access to the proper equipment to assess you, I’m concerned about potential damage to your lungs.”

Henry took a deep breath, trying to pay special attention to the differences between what hurt in his ribcage and what hurt in his lungs specifically. “It aches, a little,” he admitted after several measured breaths. “Kind of like I just got done running for a long time.”

Papa frowned slightly. Apparently that wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. “After breakfast, you’re going back on the oxygen for a few hours, and you’ll stay on it while you sleep.”

Henry didn’t argue, nor did he kick up a fuss when his father helped him dress. He soon discovered his legs were more than a little weak and sore as hell, a fun mixture from extreme exertion followed by prolonged disuse. It was a relief when Papa kept a tight grip on him, crushing Henry to his side as he guided Henry to the galley and eating area.

Everyone else was already seated at their little dining table, far more crowded together than they had usually been at the house—the old house, Henry reminded himself. As Henry was eased into his seat, squished in between his parents, he noted that no one had started to eat yet. The second his butt hit the chair—and Papa’s back was turned as he went to fetch some coffee—Luca and Abigail dove into their food.

Dad wasn’t in as much of a hurry, laying an arm across the back of Henry’s chair, careful not to brush against his injury. After a good-morning hair ruffle, he asked, “How’re you feeling?”

Henry stole a piece of toast off of his Dad’s plate and foolishly shrugged with the wrong shoulder. He covered his small grunt of pain and wince by shoving half his pilfered toast into his mouth at once. “Okay,” he said once his mouth wasn’t full. “Sore. A little woozy.”

“That’ll pass once the meds get tapered off. The wooziness, not the soreness. Only time will tell with that,” his father said, speaking from experience.

Considering the complaints his Dad occasionally had about the state of his shoulders—stabbed in one, shot in the other, both act funny when it rains, allegedly—Henry didn’t want to think about the long road of recovery he had for his own. Far more pressing was the rumbling of his stomach, so rather than dwell on the future, Henry turned his focus to wolfing down his breakfast until his gut felt less painfully empty.

Halfway through, the urgency of eating had eased somewhat. Henry paused and cleared his throat. “So… what’s next?”

Papa returned then and poured coffee into the three mugs on the table before taking his place on Henry’s other side. “First, we need to meet up with Chiyoh. Do you remember her? You met once or twice when you were around Luca’s age.”

Thinking for a moment, Henry put down his fork. “I remember an older woman. Long black hair?”

“That would be my aunt, the Lady Murasaki. Chiyoh’s has been under her employ for a very long time, before I ever came to live with her and my uncle as a boy. Over the years, she’s occasionally aided us in our travels and will be doing so again. We’re to meet her at a secluded dock near Valencia. From there, she will take our boat through the strait of Gibraltar. Three days later, we will reconvene near the Portugal border outside the city of Huelva.”

Henry nodded along at his father’s explanation, suddenly very aware he needed to brush up on his geography. “When will we get to Valencia?” he asked. “And why is she taking the boat through the strait and not us?”

“About a day, maybe a little longer,” Dad mumbled around his mouthful, having stolen back his piece of toast when Henry wasn’t looking. “Can’t push it as much as I’d like since I have to be careful with our fuel.”

“We’ve also had a rather languid pace since setting off,” Papa said, eyes briefly darting from Henry’s face to glare disdainfully at Dad’s mouth.  

Henry fiddled with his fork, pushing around the food on his plate aimlessly. The only thing slowing their progress had been _him._ Henry didn’t know what he’d do if the delay caused by his injury led their family into even more trouble. But when he looked back up, Papa was only smiling down at him warmly as he drank his coffee, like he knew precisely what was worrying Henry. He reached out and gave Henry’s good shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Across the table, Abigail had finished her own breakfast and was feeding a mostly-cooperative Anna. She didn’t look away from her task as she said, “Now that no one’s keeping vigil at your bedside anymore, we can speed up a little. Nice to see you among the living, by the way.”

Henry squirmed, hit with the sudden realization that he hadn’t properly greeted _anyone_ since he came into the room. “Thanks. Uh, good morning?”

Abigail paused, turning to give Henry a bright smile and a wink. “Morning, Killer.” She resumed spooning applesauce into Anna’s sticky mouth.

A dopey grin threatened to take over Henry’s face in response to the nickname, which Henry fought down if only because smiling that wide would hurt like hell. He hadn’t had time to truly let the idea sink in after waking up that first time. Henry had _killed_ someone, many someones, all on his own. No parent helping him or guiding his hand. It should probably be shameful, the warm, bubbly feeling that suffused him at the thought.

Before he could ruminate on this further, Luca’s chiming voice called for his attention. “G’mornin’!” Luca was chewing obnoxiously, mouth open and displaying a wad of scrambled eggs. He’s smiling though, eyes wide and cheery.

“Hey, Lucky.”

“Are you done sleeping yet?”

“He still needs rest,” Papa cautioned, before Henry could speak, “But yes. He should be present with us for the rest of our trip.”

“Good,” Luca declared with a prim nod. It made Henry laugh, although the pain that bloomed all along his ribs and in his lungs made him wish he hadn’t.

He winced, eyes pinching closed, and when the wave of discomfort has passed, he opened them to see both of his fathers staring with concern. “I’m fine,” he told them. “Just shouldn’t laugh.”

Henry breathed carefully as he tried to steer the conversation back on topic, away from him and his newfound fragility. “What about the strait?”

Dad finished his coffee and promptly refilled his mug. “Yeah, what about that?”

“Given some of the news Chiyoh relayed when we spoke on the phone earlier, it seemed the best course of action.” Papa paused, eyes having been drawn to Anna who was finished with her breakfast and resisting Abigail’s best attempts at wiping her face. He rose and rounded the table to pick her up. Seconds too late, he jerked his head back to avoid getting her wet, sticky fingers all over his face. As Abigail hid her laugh behind her hand and passed him a napkin, Papa continued, “The boat was mentioned at least once in Jack’s presence. It would be too great a risk to assume that detail would escape his notice. As our only possible route to the Atlantic, it’s incredibly likely-”

“You slit his throat,” Dad interrupted, brows furrowed.

Papa delicately wiped at Anna’s fingers and then her face, which had her whining and trying to squirm out of his grasp. “I did,” he confirmed.

“So what does it matter what he heard? He’s dead.”

“He is not,” Papa said. “It appears our dear friend Jack managed to cling to life just long enough for his allies to arrive. They must have smelled the gas and moved him to safety before the house was destroyed.”

The cup of coffee that had been hovering near Dad’s mouth as they’d talked slammed down, some of the liquid inside slothing over the edge and onto the table. Dad stood from his chair so quickly it nearly toppled behind him. “How can he be _alive?”_

“I believe I already explained my theory as to _how,_ Will. You’ve always known Jack was a stubborn man. Does this really surprise you? Honestly, I thought you’d be pleased. Jack’s death never appealed to you much.”

Palms pressed to the table, Dad hung his head, his breathing heavy and deep. “I didn’t want—I didn’t… I just wanted it to finally be over. If he’s alive, he’ll never—we’re always going to he _hunted._ What kind of life is that for us? Our kids?”

“That was going to be the case with or without Jack.”

Anna whined again, a higher pitch indicating something more serious than just being irritated at being cleaned. Papa considered for a moment before giving her over to Abigail, who cradled their sister close.

By the time he rejoined Henry and Dad on the other side of the table, Dad had started to calm himself, not wanting to upset the baby. He forced himself to breathe slower until the faint trembling that had begun in his arms had eased.

Papa’s hand reached out and gently grasped the side of Dad’s face, turning him until their eyes met. “Whatever follows, we will handle it. As we’ve _always_ handled it. Your worst case scenario came to pass just days ago, and what happened? We prevailed. _All_ of us.”

Dad sighed, leaning into the touch, and mumbled something into the skin of Papa’s palm. Henry couldn’t see from where he was seated—Dad was facing away from him—but he imagined his father’s eyes were closed as he quietly spoke. “Not my worst scenario. Not my—not the absolute worst. It came close, but-”

Henry turned in his seat, scooting his chair closer to where his parents’ huddled, and laid his left hand atop his Dad’s. “We’re all still here,” he said. “You didn’t lose us.”

Apparently that was not as comforting to hear as Henry had assumed, because in the very next moment, Dad’s body was racked with a great, heaving sob. Papa laid a hand on the back of Dad’s neck and pulled him close in a strong embrace, but the crying only got louder, Dad’s body shaking all the more. Henry scrambled to his feet and leaned in, wrapping his good arm around his father’s middle from behind. It helped stymie some of the shuddering, but not as much as he’d like.

Peeking across the table, Henry saw that Luca had stopped idly kicking his feet. He squinted, brows furrowed as he regarded the hugging trio with an excessive intensity. Finally, he came to his conclusion: “Does Daddy need a hug?”

“I think so,” Abigail said at the same time Dad fervently nodded his head against Papa’s shoulder, an action Henry felt more than saw.

“Okay!” Luca hopped off his chair and rushed over to where they stood, eying the configuration carefully before deciding he could get in at Dad’s legs. He wrapped his arms around as much limb as he could and rested his chin against Dad’s hip, craning his neck to look up at him. “Better?”

Dad’s laugh was a wet, shaky thing, far from fully recovered. Still, he dropped his hand to rest it on Luca’s head, slightly mussing the soft, straight hairs someone—Papa or Abigail, probably—had spent far too long brushing into compliance.

“Almost,” Dad said. Henry felt him shift, turning his head toward the lone holdout, who was trying to drink her coffee in peace despite holding a baby determined to scald them both. “Someone’s missing, though.”

With a fond eye-roll, Abigail placed her mug down and maneuvered Anna to her hip before dutifully rising from her seat and joining the rest of the family. She situated herself on the opposite side of Dad from Luca, wrapping her free arm around Henry’s back. Anna was now wisely squished between Abigail and Papa, keeping her calm.

Henry wasn’t sure how long they all stood there, holding onto Dad as he sighed, breath occasionally hitching as tears threatened to spill once again. He thought it would have been more than long enough for either Luca or Anna to become uncomfortable and restless. But Henry’s nose was still busted to hell, so maybe his father wasn’t as distressed as he assumed, tears aside. When the hug stretched on and on, the group swaying a bit as they leaned against each other, he thought, rather than tears of stress or fear, that they must have been tears of overwhelming relief.

At some point, Abigail had shifted Anna to rest on Papa’s hip instead of hers. With an arm now freed, she snuck a hand down to Dad’s coffee mug on the table and took a sip. Her half-gag after she declared it was ice-cold punched a laughing fit out of their father. Henry had to let go or else risk his bad shoulder being jostled. Luca dislodged at the same time and announced that Dad was all better now.   

The huddle finally broken apart, everyone floated back to their seats to finish their food. Papa kept Anna with him, her curious fingers significantly hampering his ability to eat. After breakfast, Abigail and Dad helped clean up and brewed another pot of coffee to sneak upstairs to the helm, taking the baby along with them.

Henry managed to successfully convince Papa he needed sunlight for a proper recovery and was granted a brief reprieve from bed rest. The compromise was that Papa personally escorted him out of the boat’s living area to the deck where he was gently deposited into a lounge chair with firm instructions to stay put until Papa retrieved him later.

That was perfectly fine with Henry, as he had no plans on moving any time soon. He let himself relax as he stared out at the sea, tracing where the dark blue of the ocean met with the pale sky on the horizon. The coast of Italy was somewhere behind them, France and Spain somewhere ahead. He wondered if the sky above their old home was washed out in gray, full of smoke, or if the woods burned still. If everything had been reduced to ash by now.

Not far away from his chair, Cephy was spread out and napping, curly fur shining like copper wire as she luxuriously soaked in the sunlight. Henry clicked his tongue to get her attention and saw her heavy, floppy head raise just slightly off the deck, blinking at him slowly.

For a moment, he thought she might go back to sleep. “C’mere, girl,” he called, holding his left hand out. His voice seemed to finally spur her into action, and she heaved herself up to scrabble across the deck. It was a struggle to keep her from climbing up onto the chair with him, but when he started to scratch behind her ears, the old dog decided that was good enough and plopped down next to him instead, resting her head on his legs.

Henry ran his hand down from her neck to her back, losing himself in the sensations of soft dog fur under his fingers, of the boat’s gentle rocking, the warm sun and the cool, biting wind on his face. He wasn’t sure where Papa had disappeared off to, only that he would return when it was time for Henry to retire to his room and go back on oxygen.

After listening to Cephy’s gentle snores as she laid in his lap, Henry was slowly starting to feel tired again and was considering joining his dog for a short nap in the fresh air when the relative peace he’d been enjoying was disturbed by a terrible sense of impending doom.

Or rather, he heard the rapid footsteps and slaps of an incoming boy and his duck, respectively.

The quacking, of course, woke Cephy instantly, her head popping up and whipping around to spot the invaders. Henry had enough sense to quickly grab hold of her collar with his left hand, keeping her in place when Luca and Paris erupted from the doorway and onto the deck with them. Luca was giggling like a maniac as the bird chased him around, playfully nibbling at his shirt and fingers.

Keeping Cephy put was more of a struggle than Henry anticipated, and her sudden lurch had him nearly falling out of his chair, painfully jarring his shoulder. He hissed under his breath, trying not to yelp and alert the playing duo, but Cephy’s impatient, whining bark did it anyway.

“Wha- oh! Hanni! Hi, Hanni!” Luca called out, waving frantically in Henry’s direction. “Are you gonna play with us?”

“Not today. I have to take it easy, remember? Once I’m healed, we can play all you want,” he answered, still trying to wrangle the dog fighting his grasp. Henry scooted Cephy closer to him and wrapped both his legs around her torso, which made her at least stop squirming. _“Stay.”_

“It’s okay,” Luca said, hopping, rather than walking, to cross the distance between them. “Daddy says Cephy isn’t trying to be mean. She’s just _really_ happy to have a new friend. But she doesn’t bother Duchess Paris anymore.”

“She doesn’t?”

“Not after she got her tail bit.”

Well, that would do it. Still, Cephy was far too excited for Henry to be confident letting her go at the moment. He didn’t want to risk Luca getting knocked off the side of the boat or something. The little monster couldn’t swim yet.

“You’re a bad influence on that bird,” he said eventually. He leaned against the dog to rest his cheek on her fur, pleasantly warmed from the sun.

Luca pouted. “Am not.”

“I’ve never seen Paris bite anyone, now all of a sudden she’s biting the dog?” Henry tsk’d.

Having no argument against that, Luca only mumbled a quiet correction of, _“Duchess_ Paris.”

“Right, sorry. Has the Duchess tried flying off yet?” Henry was too tired to keep a playful fight going. The last thing he needed was a headache from one of Luca’s fits.

Luca shook his head and looked over his shoulder at where Paris was curiously whacking her beak against a spot on the deck. “No. Papa says she’ll stay as long as I keep feeding her, but that she might leave to nest someday. You don’t think she’ll leave, do you, Hanni?”

Henry only barely stopped himself from shrugging his response, smooshing his face further into Cephy’s fur instead. “We’ll have to wait and see. Who knows, maybe there’ll be some nice drakes where we settle down, and she won’t have to go far.”

“Are we going to have another pond?”

“Maybe. That’s up to our fathers.” Henry yawned, accidentally inhaling some of the dog hair floating in the air, and tried desperately not to hack up his already sore, battered lungs. If he coughed much more in the near future, he feared they’d just detach and scamper away, thoroughly finished with his ongoing abuse of them.

“You okay?” Luca had circled around to the back of Henry’s chair and patted his back. It did absolutely nothing to help, but Henry appreciated the gesture anyway.

“I’m fine,” he croaked, voice still a mess. “Cephy needs a good brushing and a bath.”

At the B-word, the dog suddenly managed to jerk free of Henry’s hold and bolted away from them, dashing indoors with a truly impressive burst of speed for the old girl.

Henry and Luca were still laughing when Papa emerged from the interior, face pinched in both confusion and displeasure. “I don’t suppose either of you know why Cephy is trying to wedge herself under my coffee table, do you?”

“No idea,” Henry said, biting his lip to keep from smiling. Luca was doing a poor job of hiding his giggles behind his hands.

Papa’s eyes were crinkled a little, full of knowing amusement as he approached. “Naturally.” He held an expectant hand out to Henry.

It couldn’t be time to go back inside, could it? When Henry hesitated, Papa did the closest thing to rolling his eyes that Henry had ever seen. “I heard that coughing earlier,” he said.

Henry groaned but accepted the hand, allowing Papa to gently pull him to his feet with no effort at all.

“Luca, you too. The boat’s going to be picking up speed soon, and I don’t want you out here when it does.”

Luca did not comply quite so readily, kicking up a fuss about wanting to play. He claimed being indoors made Paris sad, which made him sad, so therefore he should be able to stay out as long as he wanted. When Papa threatened to carry him back inside, sans duck, he gave in, stomping and grumbling under his breath the whole way, Paris loyally waddling along behind him.

Why Papa even let the thing inside, Henry couldn’t comprehend, but he was soon not-so-subtly directed to follow them with a hand pressing at the center of his back. And like the dutiful son he was, he went.

To make up for the lack of time outside, the curtains on his window were thrown wide open, flooding the room with late morning light, plenty to read by. After changing Henry’s dressing, Papa set up the nasal cannula for his oxygen. Water was placed within reach on his left side, along with a book and an honest-to-god bell.

“In case you have need of me,” Papa had said, placing the shining, bronze colored thing down on the blanket. Henry dropped his book and picked it up, looking up at his father incredulously. The _really_ on his face must have been quite apparent, even through the bruises, because Papa just sighed and tapped a finger on the plastic tubing coming out of his nose and wrapped around his head.

“Your lungs have had enough strain without you yelling to get my attention from the other side of the boat. I’ll be back in a few hours; we’ll take you off the tank then and discuss your pain levels. If you’re feeling up to it, we can also walk around the boat for a short while to start rebuilding your strength.”

Henry didn’t need a reminder about how weak he was, but he nodded anyway. The walk to the galley, the deck, then back to his room had honestly exhausted him. He didn’t know if the cause of his weariness was the ordeal they went through, the length of time he was unconscious, or the drugs… In all likelihood, it was a combination of all three.

With a small smile, Papa kissed a section of Henry’s forehead that didn’t hurt to be touched and drifted out of the room, leaving him alone.

Now that the space was properly lit, Henry looked around and noticed for the first time that Luca’s bed was no longer against the wall on the opposite side of the room. He realized they must have moved it after arriving, either not wanting Henry to be disturbed while he recovered or perhaps saving Luca the trauma of seeing Henry lay there unresponsive and bleeding.

A few years ago, Henry had been annoyed when his parents bought the yacht; they were all dragged to the marina to decorate and set things up to their liking. He’d never had to share a room before, not that he could remember, and didn’t want to start when they were suddenly discovered and had to flee. Dad had told him that anything larger would draw more attention than they could afford, and that Henry would just have to learn to deal with it if—when—the time came.

Turned out Dad was wrong, because Henry had the room entirely to himself. This should probably have been pleasing, but Henry found himself staring at the door, wanting to be up on the deck watching Luca and Paris chase each other and the dog. It wasn’t long after he had this thought that he felt the boat suddenly jerk, the waves outside the window churning faster, splashing against the sides of their vessel as it sped up drastically. It felt a bit like being on a train, and he was very glad he’d been sitting when they accelerated.

Someone else had not been, however, as he heard a small thud out in the hallway, followed by a quiet, “Ow.”

He knew that squeaky voice. “Lucky?”

A few seconds passed before his door opened slowly, and Henry saw his little brother peer up at him in the crack as he held onto the knob. He blinked owlishly. “I hit the wall.”

Henry put down the book that he wasn’t even reading, held out his arm. “Come sit with me. Careful, walk slow. Are you okay?”

Luca took an unsteady step toward him, arms held out like he was on a tightrope. “I think so,” he said after a particularly shaky step.

“Careful, Lucky,” Henry repeated. “What did you hit?”

“The wall.”

Henry’s arm flopped onto the bed. He had to suppress the urge to punch the bridge of his nose. “What _part_ of _you_ hit the wall?”

“Oh.” Luca’s wobbly journey finally came to an end by the bed, and he gripped the blankets in both of his little fists to keep himself steady. “My head.”

After several failed attempts on Luca’s part to heave himself up onto the bed without assistance, Henry grabbed him by the back of his shirt and tugged, which only resulted in Luca letting himself go limp and be awkwardly dragged up to join Henry, giggling the entire time. Being incompetently manhandled was hilarious, apparently—for Henry it was just exhausting. Before Luca had the chance to flop face-first onto the bed, Henry looped an arm around his brother’s middle and pulled him upright. He leaned against the headboard and situated Luca until he was resting against Henry’s chest.

While Luca busied himself with Henry’s abandoned book, Henry carefully touched his fingertips to the back of his brother’s head, moving aside wisps of blond hair to see if there was any redness or swelling. If the knock had been serious, Luca would have been wailing loud enough to wake the dead, but Henry didn’t want to take any chances. He found a very small bump around the side of Luca’s head that made him yelp and jerk away from Henry’s hand.

“Sorry, Lucky. There’s where you smacked into the wall, huh?”

“I guess,” Luca grumbled, shooting a nasty glare at Henry over his shoulder.

Henry held his hand up in a harmless, placating fashion—the gesture felt weird with only one arm—and moved it away from his brother’s head. “Won’t touch it again, but I had to check.”

Luca wasn’t convinced, but after several minutes of Henry making no move to resume his examination, the suspicion finally melted off Luca’s face. He held up the book, nearly bumping Henry in the nose with it, causing him to smack his own head into the wall behind him.

“What’s this about?”

Trying not to wince too much at the resulting reverberation of pain through his face, Henry plucked the book from Luca’s hand, turning it to show Luca the sparsely illustrated front cover. He traced his thumb over the tan cloth, following along the red clouds in the sky.

“It’s about a man that gets stranded on an island full of weird animal people. Their creator makes them follow all kinds of rules about how not to act beastly, like they can’t eat meat or walk around on all fours.”

“Can you read it to me?” Luca asked after a moment of thought.

It’d been a while since Henry had read the book himself, especially since it’s probably been a year since it was moved from their home library to the boat. Still, he seemed to recall it was a bit more gruesome than Luca’s typical story choices.

“Are you sure? There’s gross surgery and lots of characters die,” Henry cautioned. “Definitely a lot of blood.”

Luca just shrugged and relaxed against Henry’s chest. He was surprisingly thoughtful in how he shifted his body, moving to lay more against Henry’s left side. “Are there pictures?”

Henry had some vague memories of illustrations, so he quickly flicked through the book. “There’s some. Nothing too scary.”

“Okay then,” Luca replied, briefly yawning and rubbing at his eye before settling more snugly against Henry, who was beginning to have a feeling that Luca would be asleep before Predick ever reached the island.

After a quick sip of water, during which Luca took the opportunity to wrest the book out of Henry’s hand, Henry directed his brother to turn to the first page. “‘On February the First 1887,’” Henry began, “‘The Lady Vain was lost by collision with a derelict when about the latitude 1° S. and longitude 107° W.’”

Not even half an hour later, Henry had to hold back a laugh, as the motion would have both hurt like hell and jostled Luca. At first, his brother had been engaged with the book, turning the pages promptly and asking questions about word meanings or the story. Eventually, he became disinterested in directly handling the book and gave it over to Henry, who had to then figure out how to turn the pages himself with only one hand. Since he didn’t want to risk causing any damage, he ended up having to put it down, flip the page, then pick it back up to continue reading. Tedious, but it worked.

Of course, all that effort was ultimately pointless as, before long, Henry could hear his brother’s soft snores when he paused to clear his throat. Easing his body out from behind Luca and moving to sit beside him without waking him was simple enough. So too was gently lifting Luca’s head, careful of the bump, and nudging a pillow under him. Henry resumed reading on his own, since that had been his original plan, and found that resting the book against his knees made it much easier to turn pages as needed.

That was how Papa found them some time later. Henry had made a significant dent in his book, and Luca was curled tightly into a ball, pressed against his side.

In hushed voices, they discussed whether Henry needed some pain relief—he did, as his shoulder had started to ache and burn—whether he should stay on the oxygen—he should, for now—and if he wanted to take a walk—he didn’t. Instead of the IV, Henry was handed two pills to take while Papa held out a glass of water. Henry swallowed them and finished off the glass of water for good measure. All the talking had dried out his throat.

When Papa scooped the bundle of Luca into his arms, so smoothly Luca hardly even stirred, Henry reached out to stop him. “Wait, he can stay here. He can—you can move his bed back from wherever it is now.”

“Our room,” his father said, looking at Henry curiously. “We’d thought-”

Henry had closed his book on his thumb and unfolded himself to scoot closer to the edge of the bed, keeping his voice quiet. “He should be in here with me. It’s his room too.” Henry realized too late that he’d interrupted, a bad habit he was starting to develop.

“Are you certain?” Papa asked, unable to suppress a warm smile when Luca instinctively nuzzled into his neck.

“Yeah, sure. Probably crowded in there, if you’ve got Luca, Cephy, _and_ the duck.”

“Both creatures would likely relocate with him,” Papa warned, the slight downturn of his lips signaling how little he liked the sleeping arrangements. Apparently on the boat, the no-animals-on-the-furniture rule ceased to apply.

“That’s fine, Papa. I don’t mind.” Plus, if Cephy started to sleep in their room, there was no way _Henry’s_ dog wouldn’t be sleeping in _Henry’s_ bed. Luca could keep his bird.

With a delicate shrug, Papa agreed to move the bed back after dinner, when the boat was anchored for the night. Henry was told he’d have lunch brought to him shortly, that he should continue resting, and to feel free to ring the bell as needed.

Public service announcements done, Papa strode out of the room with a sleeping Luca. Henry was left alone again, at least for the moment, but it felt like a far less dire state than it had the first time. Papa would be returning soon, and tonight, he was going to have Luca and his dog back. Tomorrow night, he’d be in a new country entirely.

He wasn’t sure how long it would be after that until his family found their new home, but as Henry settled back against the headboard and opened his book, he couldn’t help but bitterly assume that no matter where it was, it would only be taken from them again. Maybe this time they could have it longer, but eventually his little sister would lose the land of her childhood, just like Luca, just like Henry had twice over.

There was nothing Henry could have done about it happening this time, not really. But he’ll be older when Agent Crawford comes sniffing around their door again, and he would not make Papa’s mistake. All those years ago, he’d left Pazzi alive, a man who knew his face and the brush strokes of his blade. Both his fathers allowed Agent Crawford to continue breathing, _knowing_ he’d pursue them relentlessly.

Maybe there was a part of his fathers that liked knowing they were wanted men, that they could evade capture time and time again. Dad had said such a thing was cocky, thinking you were smarter than those who hunted you. And yet… wasn’t that exactly what Henry’s father must think? That his false leads, their selective, careful kills would stay under the radar forever?

It wasn’t enough to be a cautious monster or a smart monster, Henry thought. You had to be _thorough._

♆


	2. Chapter 2

Henry’s attention wavered as he tried to keep reading until the book dangled aimlessly from his fingers, too preoccupied with wondering how much Dad remembered from his police training and if they had any books on forensics on the boat. It was doubtful, but he resolved to ask at dinner. 

As the book had lost his interest, Henry carefully removed the tubing entangled around his head and eased himself off the bed. His legs still felt far too weak, but that would improve with time. Holding onto furniture and walls for stability—especially since the boat was clipping along at considerable speed—Henry made his way over to his bookcase by the door. The bullet taken from his shoulder was back in its pouch, placed reverently in the middle of one of the shelves. Henry trailed his finger over the soft velvet, feeling the hard lump hidden within. Before the temptation to shake the metal out grew too great, his eyes caught light reflecting off of something higher up. 

Henry was wary of trying to grab it, as that meant letting go of his support, but figured that if he started to fall, he’d be able to catch himself with his good arm. Probably. There was a solid 70% chance. Decided, Henry reached up, tentatively poked at whatever the shining thing was. 

It was sharp, jagged, and rough to the touch. 

Holding his breath, Henry rose up on his tiptoes—a precarious position, given the boat was prone to lurching to the side at random, as Luca had learned—and felt along the short chunk of metal before his fingers reached solid, smooth wood. He grabbed the handle and turned to lean against the bookshelf as he examined the partial knife in his hand. The blade was still caked in dried blood, lending to its odd, coarse texture under his touch. 

Papa—or Dad, but his hunch was the former—had kept it for him. Truthfully, it had no use to him anymore. There was less than half of the blade length left. He wondered idly if it could be remade somehow, although there was little point with such a small amount of material remaining. It’d be a dreadfully small knife. 

But… maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, to have something concealable in the palm of his hand? Henry had to admit the idea had appeal. Unfortunately, while he knew his fathers both had a wealth of talents, Henry wasn’t so sure blacksmithing was among them. Still, there was no telling where their flight would eventually take them—perhaps they’d eventually find someone with the skills needed to reform and shape what was left of the knife. 

However, that was for another day, and Henry carefully put the blade back onto the shelf, tucked behind the velvet pouch. 

He grabbed another book at random, not terribly concerned with what it was, and slowly made his way back to bed. Papa returned while Henry was still fidgeting with the tubing, getting it situated around his head and ears again. His hand dropped to his lap like the plastic had burned him too late to escape his father’s notice. 

Quietly closing the door behind him, Papa carried a silver tray over to Henry’s bed and placed it over his legs. “Is that bothering you?” he asked, glancing at the nasal cannula Henry wasn’t entirely certain he’d placed correctly. 

“It’s fine,” Henry mumbled with a left-sided shrug. He leaned to rest against the headboard and idly poked at the fresh bundle of flowers sitting in a tiny vase next to his plate of food. Where had those even  _ come _ from? 

“Let’s try removing it for now. If you have difficulty breathing, we can put it back.” 

Henry grunted his assent, and Papa set about undoing all of Henry’s hasty work, removing the tubing and carefully setting it aside. Glad to be rid of the plastic tasting air for now, Henry tucked into his lunch, a very familiar looking chicken soup. His father had likely made an enormous pot of it sometime after the surgery, in anticipating of Henry waking and requiring more simple fare while he convalesced. 

Halfway through inhaling the bowl, Henry was beginning to feel a tad awkward. His father hadn’t left the room, instead sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Henry as he ate. Henry wiped broth from his mouth with the back of his hand and cleared his throat.

“Something wrong?” he felt compelled to ask, even though Papa’s face was relaxed, eyes warm. 

“No,” he said, smiling. “Not at all. I just find I have yet to have my fill of seeing you awake and well.” Given Papa was prone to staring with wonder and adoration even on good days, Henry doubted he’d ever be truly satisfied. 

But Henry had long grown used to being the focus of his father’s unending attention, so he only mumbled, “Okay,” and returned to his lunch.

For some reason, that made Papa chuckle and pat his leg. He felt his father rise from the bed and cross the room but didn’t hear him leave. Figuring that since he wasn’t  _ at _ a table, he didn’t necessarily need  _ table manners,  _ Henry risked just picking up his bowl and slurping down the rest of the broth and softened vegetables, glancing at Papa out of the corner of his eyes. He was standing at the bookshelf, having noticed the broken knife’s relocation. 

“I wasn’t sure if I should have thrown this out or not. Your father accused me of wanting to create a grotesque scrapbook for you,” Papa commented lightly, thumb ghosting the knife’s jagged edge. 

Henry snorted a laugh—unfortunate, as he hadn’t finished his broth—and stuttered out, through yet another coughing fit, “Wouldn’t that be precious. Baby’s First Murder.” 

“You’re well passed your first by now, my sweet boy.” 

And that was true, wasn’t it? That night had been five. There was six total, if you counted his birthday lesson. Henry grinned as he dropped his bowl back down onto the tray. “I guess I am.” 

“When you’ve had more time to recover, I’d love for you to recount that evening for me, from the very beginning,” Papa said after putting the knife back where he’d found it. He crossed the room swiftly and retrieved the tray, but not before bending down to press a whisper of a kiss to Henry’s hair. “For now, rest.” 

Resting was all Henry had been doing since he came to on the boat, but as he was feeling very full and warm now, he didn’t argue and shuffled down in his bed until his head landed on a pillow, still slightly indented from Luca. 

When the light from his window was snuffed out from the curtain being drawn closed, Henry couldn’t deny how tired he felt. He drifted off to sleep before his father had even left the room. 

Something clamping around his fingers rapidly like one of those wind-up, clattering teeth woke Henry with a jolt, sending a fresh wave of pain through his shoulder when he sat up far too quickly. Apparently, his left arm had fallen to dangle over the edge of his bed and looked far too appealing for her ladyship, Duchess Paris, to resist nibbling on. 

Henry slowly blinked as they stared at each other in the dim light, her with all the terrifying blankness of a spectacularly dense dinosaur, him slightly dazed, aching, and wondering how far away this meant his brother was lurking. Perhaps he was under the bed. 

After stretching and shaking out his hand—the wake-up had been more startling than painful, at least where his fingers were concerned—Henry took a chance on the bird’s intelligence and patted the bed. 

“C’mon. Get up here.” The soft thudding of his hand on the bedspread drew Paris’ attention, her beaked face whipping between the motion, to Henry, and then back again. It was when he pinched his fingers together like he was holding something that she finally took a leap, flapping and quacking in irritation when she missed on her first two tries. 

There was nothing Henry could do one-handed to help, so he just waited, watched as thousands of teeny tufts of brown feathers floated in the air with her struggles. Finally, the duck managed to figure out the correct height and landed with an ungraceful flop onto the bed. 

“Good job, Chainsaw,” Henry praised, laughing and petting down her long neck, smoothing down the ruffled feathers. “I can’t believe they’re letting you just wander free around here. You’ve probably pooped on everything.” 

Paris made a low, rumbling noise in response, which Henry took as her confirmation that she had, indeed, defecated on every surface of the yacht. 

Upon realizing that there was no food to be had up on the bed, the bird melted into a dejected puddle over Henry’s legs, content to nap if she couldn’t eat. Unfortunately, it was only after he was suddenly pinned that Henry realized he really needed to use the bathroom. He sighed, looking longingly at his door and then back to the duck.

So this was how he died. 

If nothing else, Henry was able to reach the lamp next to his bed—just barely—and flicked it on. He grabbed the new book he’d picked earlier and propped it up against the soft side of the bird holding him down. She grumbled at the sudden weight and twisted her neck around to lightly peck at the soft cover. 

When she actually managed to rip off a small corner, Henry tsk’d at her loudly. “Stop that!” 

Paris gave up after the third or fourth time Henry lightly bopped her on the beak. Satisfied the book was safe for now, Henry tried to settle in to read only to realize that what he’d grabbed wasn’t in English—or even Italian or French—but German, which was irritating. It left him wondering what a book in a language he didn’t even know was doing in his room. As far as he was aware, there was only one person in their family that spoke fluent German. So not only was he stuck with his first book if he wanted to read, but he’d most definitely just allowed one of  _ Papa’s  _ books to be damaged. At least it was a newer copy and not one of the pricey first editions he kept around. 

Henry tossed the book onto the table with a huff. The loud thump it made against the wood startled the duck, who flapped at him in what he was sure she thought was justifiable outrage and hopped off the bed, freeing him. As she waddled off through the open door— _ Luca!— _ Henry noticed she had little trouble staying upright, and the world on a whole seemed to be rolling along rather smoothly. He supposed this meant that Dad was away from the helm, and they were slowing down for the night. 

With a groan, Henry slid himself to the edge of his bed, stretching and digging his socked toes into the carpet. His shoulder hurt from the way he’d jerked awake earlier, which made him wince as he stood. Thankfully, balance wasn’t as much of an issue at the moment. Henry found his legs weren’t the steadiest of things, even after walking around a bit today, but it was getting easier to move around on his own. 

Some progress was better than none, he supposed. 

To be safe, he slowly shuffled across the room, occasionally grabbing onto furniture or the wall when a knee came perilously close to buckling. Once he reached his door, he felt more confident in his ability to walk all by himself, which would have been embarrassing if he wasn’t also tremendously proud. 

Using the bathroom that was right across the hall from his room was… an ordeal he hadn’t anticipated, but he managed. After he washed his hand—something else he never realized was an impossible task with only one arm available—Henry took a moment to examine himself in the bathroom mirror. 

His face was a goddamn mess. Hair that was normally wild with curls lay relatively flat and limp against his head. His nose wasn’t the huge, unsightly bruise he’d assumed it would be, but along with his left eye and that whole side of his face, was a deep, reddish purple, like wine. He hadn’t realized he’d been sporting a black eye since his fight with the liaison, but Henry was glad it hadn’t swollen shut, at least. The smoke had impaired his vision more than enough that night. What skin that wasn’t bruised was pale and sallow, giving him the appearance of a stained wax figure. 

Tentatively, Henry raised the hem of his shirt, pulling it as high as his armpits to get a good look at his torso, careful not to jostle his right arm where it was rigid in its sling. He sucked in a breath through his teeth when inch after inch of bruised skin was exposed, stretching from his stomach all the way around to his left side. He didn’t even remember getting hit  _ that _ hard. The area between his sternum and belly button looked the worst, still had a bright, almost magenta mottling to it. Had he really not broken any ribs? He found that hard to believe, but he had to trust Papa’s assessment. 

Holding his shirt in his teeth to keep it out of the way, Henry gingerly touched the bruise, his fingertips only barely brushing skin. He hissed in anticipation of a sting upon contact but realized it really only produced a sharp ache if he pressed with a little force. Perhaps that was from the medication he’d taken earlier, preventing him from feeling the full extent of it. As opposed to whatever had been in the IV, at least these meds didn’t make him feel fuzzy-headed. 

Any other damage was outside of his ability to inspect at the moment. Henry supposed he could ask Papa for a mirror when his dressing was next changed. Dad would probably think it was morbid, but if Henry waited too long, it’d be healed or scabbed over. It was already stitched shut, as far as he was aware. 

And Henry didn’t bother lying to himself about why he wanted to see the wound so badly. Rather than just for curiosity’s sake, it was the need of a more visceral, immediate reminder of the consequences of failure, of not being fast enough, strong enough, or clever enough. His own blood, torn skin, and bruised battered body. Carefully examining the outcome of battle, feeling around the edges of his pain, was a less terrifying and abstract concept than trying to picture what  _ could _ have happened instead. What he could have lost.

Physical pain could be understood. And pain was a useful lesson for the more primitive parts of the brain. 

Having learned all he could from his tattered flesh, at least for now, Henry left the bathroom and shuffled his way into the main living area on the boat. There, he found Abigail stretched out on one of the couches, watching something on TV. Anna lay on top of her, holding a small, thick book above her head and giggling at the swaying cardboard pages. 

Henry shuffled closer until he could collapse into an armchair, only realizing after he was comfortable that the lever to pop up the footrest was on the wrong side. The world was cruel.

“Hey baby brother,” Abigail said with a yawn, not looking away from the TV. She idly poked at something that squeaked in Anna’s book, making their sister giggle. 

“Sounds like you’re in need of a nap more than I was,” Henry told her, noting with some amusement that Abigail had gotten into Dad’s DVD collection. The ones banished to the boat were mostly old, American action movies—which were either timeless classics according to one father, or mindless drivel, according to another. It was some family movie on the TV right now, though. Not many action films with talking dogs. 

Henry was just wondering where his own dog was, watching as a cat berated a golden retriever on the screen, when Abigail spoke next. 

“Is that where you disappeared off to? Not sick of sleeping yet?” 

“I’m under strict orders to rest,” Henry grumbled. 

Abigail’s head partially slid off the couch to regard him upside down, as the couch’s armrest had been blocking their view of each other. “And you’re  _ listening? _ Wow.” 

Henry bristled at the implication he was prone to disobedience or stubbornness. That was certainly not the case… with just one exception. The day Jack Crawford came to their door was an outlier. 

“Of course I am.” Never mind that he really has been feeling tired… and the threat that if he sabotaged his recovery he might never get to hunt again was a very strong motivator. 

“Well good. As your nurse, I recommend bed rest for at least another five years.” 

“Funny.” Henry rolled his eyes. “You’re not making Papa stay on bed rest. He’s got a messed up shoulder too.” At least, Dad had said so. Henry had yet to see evidence of a bum shoulder—not that a lack of evidence meant much when it came to Papa. 

Abigail laughed at that. “Doctors are the worst patients. He’ll do what he wants when he wants, no matter what his doc says.” 

“I thought you were our nurse.” 

“I’m  _ your _ nurse,” Abigail corrected. “I’m  _ his _ doctor. See how that works?” 

Henry nodded. “Absolutely,” he said. He had no idea what she meant. 

Coming from the vicinity of the stairs, Henry heard Luca. 

“Hanni!” By the time Henry looked up, Luca had wiggled free of Dad’s grip, leaving him holding out an empty hand, a vaguely disappointed frown on his tired face. 

“Hey Lucky,” Abigail and Henry chorused, much to Luca’s amusement. 

He stopped short of both of them, grinning like a loon. “Are you feeling better, Hanni?” he asked. 

“Sure,” Henry said, not even lying. He did feel a bit better. 

Dad eventually moved from the stairs’ small landing and hoisted Luca back into his arms, clearly not ready to have been separated yet. “Glad to hear it,” he told Henry. “I hear I have some furniture to move after dinner?” 

“Yeah, Luca’s bed is going back in our room,” Henry said. 

“You sure about that?”

“Yes,” Henry answered with a sigh. “I’m sure.” Somehow, he’d rather share the room with a tantrum-throwing monster than spend another night alone. 

Henry could see it on his Dad’s face that he wasn’t entirely convinced, and even though Henry’s answer had resulted in a happy, “Yay!” from Luca, he looked about to say something when Abigail reached out to swat at his legs. 

“Dad, move. You’re blocking the screen.” 

“You could sit up.” 

“I could.” She swiped at him again, her fingers just barely brushing his pant leg. He wasn’t quite close enough to smack properly, so she wiggled to hang off the couch a little more. If she leaned any farther, both of Henry’s sisters were going to end up on the floor. 

It proved a sufficient entertainment for Luca, though, who was watching with amused interest, giggling every time Abigail failed to persuade Dad to step aside. 

“You’re blocking Anna’s view of the dogs,” Abigail tried. “That’s child cruelty.” 

Anna, who was chewing on her cardboard book, was content to look any and everywhere in the room  _ but _ the television. 

Henry half-tuned the bickering out, drawing his legs up onto his chair since the footrest was unavailable. He wrapped his good arm around his shins, pulling his legs into his body as close as he could without compressing his torso, and rested the non-bruised side of his face on his knees. As he predicted, Abigail ended up sliding to the floor when Dad kept inching out of her reach, which made Luca laugh so hard his face turned red. 

From her new position, Abigail could see the TV again, albeit upside down, which seemed to suit her just fine. Dad scooped Anna off of Abigail’s chest with his free arm and collapsed on the couch clutching his two smallest children. Luca complained about getting touched with something wet. 

Henry knew Papa had entered the room when every other member of the family turned their head in the same direction, all breaking out into small smiles. When everyone started to move, Henry brought the world back into focus and heard the tail-end of the announcement for dinner. 

“Are you feeling alright?” Papa asked, placing a gentle hand on Henry’s nape. 

He nodded and tried not to wince as he unfolded, his shoulder protesting loudly at every slight movement. 

Papa watched him carefully, at the stiff, wobbly way Henry stood from the chair he’d curled up in. “Would you like an ice pack?” 

“Maybe after dinner?” As nice as it sounded, he couldn’t very well hold up a bag of ice and eat at the same time. 

With a huff of breath, Papa grabbed Henry’s good elbow. “Come along,” was all he said, leading him toward the galley. 

Figuring he was just being escorted around the boat again—and not feeling inclined to complain, the support was appreciated—Henry went as he was bade, only to be confused when he was steered away from their small dining table. There was a stool tucked underneath the island countertop, and Papa pulled it out, gesturing for Henry to sit. 

“You remember the stipulations your father and I gave you?” Papa was asking as he took something out of the freezer. Henry’s brows furrowed, mouth opening to say  _ yes _ before he closed it, unsure what was happening. 

When Henry said nothing, just sat there, confused and sore, Papa added, “That wasn’t a rhetorical question.”

Henry suddenly felt like he was failing a test he hadn’t even known he was taking. “Yes,” he answered, keeping his voice even. He hadn’t even  _ done anything _ , he mentally groused. “I have to stay on my best behavior and follow the rules for my recovery.” 

“And did that or did that not include telling us when you’re in pain?” 

It wasn’t like he was trying to hide it! Henry scowled, a million excuses springing to mind. “I was gonna-”

Papa stood in front of him, ice pack in one hand, some straps he’d pulled from a drawer in another. “Stop.”

Henry’s mouth clacked closed. He obediently stayed silent as the ice pack was secured to his shoulder, his father careful about how much pressure he applied. It was uncomfortable at first, a sudden barrage of sensation, not all of which Henry’s brain could parse as being particularly pleasant. 

“Not too tight?” Papa asked after adjusting the pack so that it was more centered over his wound. 

“No,” Henry said. Everywhere the pack touched was slowly succumbing to numbness, the hot feeling under his skin that had been there since he awoke melted away into cool nothingness. “It’s fine. Great, actually. Thank you.” 

Papa fiddled with the strap one last time before nodding and moving away. “Good. We’ll leave it on for an hour or until it’s melted. You’ll get something for the pain before bed. Now, go sit at the table while I finish dinner.” 

Dismissed, Henry hopped off his stool. He lingered for a moment, watching his father busy himself with a few pans on the stove top. Toeing at the smooth linoleum floor, Henry kept his eyes on his feet as he spoke. “Do you need any help? I know I can’t do much, but…” 

Papa paused with the sauce he was stirring and turned to regard Henry with a much softer expression than he had before. “If you’d like.” He stepped aside, holding out the handle of a wooden spoon. 

“Not too fast,” Papa said when Henry continued where he had left off. He received a quick pat on his head, which morphed into a distinctly displeased assessment of his hair, before Papa moved away to check on whatever it was in the oven, leaving Henry with the impression he was going to find himself wrapped in plastic and deposited into a tub before the night was over. That was probably for the best. He still had other people’s blood under his nails. 

It was only a few minutes of slow stirring until Henry was relieved of his duty, but Papa thanked him anyway for the minimum he’d contributed. He was gently ushered to the dining table and out of Papa’s way. The seating had changed from this morning, and now Dad sat between Abigail and Luca, with Anna on his lap, who kept trying to get her hands on some shiny cutlery. Henry dropped into the chair across from Luca. 

He lowered his cheek to rest against the smooth, cool lacquered wood of the table, only just now realizing how sweaty and exhausted he was. 

“You okay there, buddy?” Henry heard the rustle of someone standing and a hand reached out to comfortingly pet his head. 

“Uh huh.” And before his Dad could fret or say anything else, Henry wearily looked up until he could see his father’s concerned face. “Just tired.” He tried to add a reassuring smile but knew he failed, based on Dad’s expression. With his chin, he gestured to the melting ice affixed to his body. “Jarred my shoulder earlier. It was hurting a little.” 

That, at least, Dad believed. “How’d that happen?” 

Good question. Henry tried to scope out Luca in his peripheral vision, see if his brother knew what sort of wake-up call Henry had been subjected to. Luca was energetically swinging his legs, hands politely folded in his lap as he stared at Henry like he too was curious about the answer. 

Which meant he had no idea. Luca was not exactly subtle. 

“Bad dream,” Henry answered with a small frown, trying to look bothered enough that his father wouldn’t ask about it. 

Thankfully he was spared from scrutiny when Papa entered the room with plates adorning his arm. Henry held back an embarrassed groan at seeing that his fish had already been cut up for him, knowing it would only have been  _ more _ humiliating to attempt it himself one-handed. 

Across from him, Luca was already shoving great big wads of pasta into his mouth, his plate completely devoid of any meat. This particular bout of picky eating was going on six months strong. Their fathers were convinced it was temporary and he’d grow out of it eventually, but Henry was less sure of that. Luca was more aware of the ways their family was… unique than their parents would probably like, even before their last evening at the old house. 

Had he not known his brother as well as he did, Henry would say it showed a remarkable level of maturity and loyalty to see your family for what they were and simply choose to look the other way. This was Luca, however, and Henry knew far simpler motivations lay behind his brother’s choices. 

He just thought eating people was gross. And for now, all meat had the potential of being people, so he avoided it. 

Before long, Henry had unwittingly started a silent war with Luca to see who could stuff more pieces of pasta into their mouths at once. While Henry had the advantage of a larger capacity, the bruising on his face prevented him from reaching peak efficiency. 

They were both doing rather splendid impersonations of chipmunks when Papa took notice of them. Henry saw Luca freeze first, fork piled high with pasta halfway to his mouth. Slowly, Henry put down his own utensil and tried to cover his mouth with a napkin as he covertly chewed as fast as he could, trying to get the wad of food down without choking on it. 

Papa seemed at a loss for words, looking at his two sons and then at his husband. Henry had just swallowed past a painful, solidified lump when Dad heaved a sigh. He adjusted Anna in his arms and grabbed his napkin, holding it out in front of Luca’s mouth. Luca recognized the universal sign of parents for “just spit it out” and complied. 

As Dad left the table to throw the offending wad away, Abigail hid her face behind her hands and laughed. “That was so gross.” 

“Sorry,” Luca said with a big, unapologetic grin. 

Henry was still chewing—he was not a  _ quitter _ —when he felt several pairs of eyes on him at once. He tried to shrink away from Papa’s in particular, but there was nowhere to go without fleeing from the table. 

Which was ruder: speaking with his mouth full or not apologizing for his terrible table manners? He settled for a sheepish, tight-lipped grimace, eyes wide and contrite. 

“You will not be doing that again,” Papa sternly said to both Henry and Luca after a long, awkward pause, although Henry thought he caught a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

The last of the Pasta swallowed, Henry nodded. “We won’t. Sorry.” The food was sitting in an uncomfortable lump in his stomach at the moment, so he was being entirely honest about that. 

Dad laughed as he returned to his seat, poking at the fish on his plate. “I guess I was worrying over nothing,” he said to Papa, a relieved smile on his face. “They’re still our little boys.” 

Henry took a more sensible bite of his dinner, wondering,  _ what else would we be? _

As soon as the meal was finished, Abigail took Anna and bolted from the room, saying something about wanting to see the stars and the baby needing fresh air. She just didn’t want to clean up again. Since he knew he was in the red when it came to being in Papa’s good graces today, Henry stuck around to help clear the table and load the dishwasher, which wasn’t too much of a challenge one-handed.

Afterward, Henry was indeed shepherded into the bathroom. The ice pack and sling were removed and replaced with a carefully arranged and taped down layer of plastic. He allowed Papa to stay long enough for Henry to get situated in the tub before kicking his father out of the room. 

Under strict instructions to keep his arm immobile, Henry preceded to have the most frustrating bath he’d ever had, and that was even including the ones he’d shared with Luca when they were younger—his brother quite possibly may have been a shark in another life. 

His evening was slightly improved when something thumped hard into the bathroom wall from the hallway, followed by a colorful string of swears. There was another thud, and Henry had the distinct impression that the bed his Dad was trying to move was now stuck. 

He leaned over the tub edge, careful not to put any pressure on his bruises, to get a little closer and better hear the voices out in the hall.

A calm voice, too quiet to make out, said something, to which Dad yelled in response,  _ “Now  _ you bring up disassembling it?” There was a quack. “No one asked you!” 

Dad was mumbling something about a screwdriver when Henry relaxed back in the water. He managed the rest of the bath with little trouble, laughing occasionally when it was obvious his father hit an elbow or a knee in the small space he was trying to navigate. Eventually, Papa politely knocked on the door and asked if Henry needed help getting out. When Henry said he could enter, he could hear Dad more clearly, huffing as he carried bed frame components from his impromptu work area in the hall to Henry and Luca’s bedroom. 

Henry giggled all through his fingers getting a thorough scrubbing with a brush, hair washed, and being wrapped in an impossibly large, fluffy towel. It felt twice as wide as he was tall, and he was completely swallowed by it. 

“Feel better?” Papa asked with a grin, gently drying Henry with a second, even fluffier towel.

There’d been a lot more blood and dirt in his hair than Henry had realized, and his head felt so much lighter without it, even while wet. His fingers no longer had a vaguely rough texture. He still hurt all over, and the soothing numbness from the ice pack had been chased away by the warm bath. But overall… “Yes,” he said through a yawn. “Much better.” 

“You’ll get your strength back before long, don’t worry,” Papa reassured him, having noticed the annoyed look that had crossed Henry’s face, and walked him back to his stateroom still wrapped in a towel. “Every day will be easier than the last.” 

“I hope so,” Henry said as he carefully stepped over a few errant screws left out in the hall. 

They reached the room just as Dad was leaving it to grab the last pieces he needed to reassemble the bed, so Papa took advantage of the moment to close the door and lock it. 

Thirty seconds later, the knob rattled. “Oh come on!” 

“Just a moment, love,” Papa called sweetly, pulling some pajamas for Henry out of a drawer. 

A muffled groan.  _ “Seriously?”  _

They shared small grins and barely concealed laughter while they listened to Dad grouse in the hallway, working together to get Henry dressed quickly and his arm back in its sling. Once Henry was in bed, Papa let Dad back into the room and completely ignored the dirty look Dad shot at his back as he left to fetch Henry’s medication for the night. 

Henry watched his Dad grumble quietly to himself for a while until he couldn’t take it anymore and had to ask, “Didn’t you have to take it apart to move it in the first place?” 

Dad sighed, sitting back on his heels as he turned to look at Henry over the rim of his glasses.  _ “Someone _ did, but it wasn’t me.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. I was telling Hannibal we’re probably only going to be out here one more night. I could’ve just moved it in the morning, but apparently Luca’s got his heart set on it. So it’s either move the damn thing now or deal with… y’know.” 

Henry laughed but was quick to smother it with a cough. “Sorry. It was my idea.”

“I figured.” Dad returned to his work and snapped a few parts of the frame together, adding the last leg needed before sitting back again. “Just so you know,” he started to slowly say, eyes going to the door to check for lurkers. “Last few nights he hasn’t—he’s had a couple bad dreams, too. Just try and be patient, okay? We’ll hear him and come take care of it. Or ring that little bell Papa got you.”

“Sure,” Henry said, voice scratchy from his throat suddenly going dry. His brother had slept well next to him during his nap earlier, hadn’t he? Not a twitch the whole time. What was different at night? 

Dad just smiled in thanks before leaving to get the rest of the bed’s components. The hard part was done, it seemed, since after that it didn’t take him long to affix the quilted headboard and finish making up the bed. It was piled with a veritable mound of blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals by the time he was done. Maybe Luca had bad dreams because his sleeping mind thought he was going to suffocate under all of that. 

Papa came back with Henry’s pain medication, along with more water. He took it gladly as his shoulder and ribs were beginning to scream at him when he so much as breathed. He also patiently sat still while being put back on oxygen for the night, even though the tubing pinched his ears when he laid on his side. Or laid in any position, really. They pinched all the time. 

The rules, though. He had to remember the rules. And if putting up with annoying tubing meant he could hunt again in the future, he’d endure it. 

“You don’t have to sleep if you don’t want to,” Papa told him after making Henry lay down under the blankets anyway. “But if you do, we’ll try not to wake you when we put Luca to bed later. Is there anything you need before I go?” 

Henry shook his head. Considering he had a very large glass of water, two books, some mild over-the-counter pain reliever he could take at his own discretion, and a  _ bell _ should all else fail, Henry was fairly confident he was all set. 

Once his parents left, Henry pushed himself to sit up, trying to prop himself up with pillows. He was tired, yes, but that was mostly his weak body sapping all of his energy to heal itself. His mind was restless. 

Of course, it was only when it was too late that Henry remembered his second book wasn’t in a language he understood. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed the one he’d read with Luca,  _ The Island of Dr. Moreau.  _ It didn’t take long to find the part where his attention had started to drift earlier, and he’d just gotten to the tragic death of Leopard-Man when the door to his room quietly reopened.

Luca was practically curled into a ball in Dad’s arms, likely scooped off that way from whatever surface he’d fallen asleep on. Papa came in first, turning off all the lights in the room except for the lamp on Henry’s bedside table and pulling the curtains tightly closed. Both fathers gave Henry and Luca kisses goodnight and then left the room as quickly as they’d swept in. 

Despite having no idea what time it was, Henry figured it would be easier for his brother to stay asleep if it was completely dark. He was getting tired anyway. 

Henry had barely slithered his way down the bed and closed his eyes when the whimpers started. 

Cephy hadn’t followed Luca to bed tonight. It was just them in the room. 

Hoping it was only a passing dream, Henry stayed quiet and still, staring at the black void that was Luca’s side of the room. He waited patiently for the noises to stop, for his brother to settle and be peaceful in sleep like he’d been that afternoon. Except it never happened. If anything, the whimpers just got louder, and he could hear Luca thrashing in his bed. 

Enough time had passed that he could see him, too, as his eyes had finally adjusted. 

Henry could wait for their fathers to pick up on Luca’s growing distress—not that Henry could detect it while his face was still busted, but some things were pretty obvious even when you were down a sense—but he didn’t like the idea of just letting his brother suffer until someone else did something about it.

“Luca,” he whispered harshly as he carefully leaned over the side of his bed. He had to hold himself on one shaky arm, since otherwise he’d be laying on his right side. “Luca, wake up!”

The whimpering became more panicked and desperate. 

If Henry called out any louder, he was going to attract attention, so he left his warm bed, inelegantly freeing himself from his mandated oxygen, and padded over to Luca. As he approached, he saw his brother had also started to cry in his sleep, which was possibly the worst thing Henry had ever seen, second only to being able  _ to watch _ as Luca was held against his will by a stranger.

He briefly considered just shaking his brother awake but ultimately decided he didn’t want to startle him. Instead, Henry chose to kneel at his brother’s bedside and gently run a hand through his hair, trying to be as comforting as he could. His touch seemed to help a little, but clearly some nightmare still had Luca in its grasp. He calmed only slightly, but he didn’t quiet, face pinched as his head shook back and forth. 

Beyond forcefully waking him, Henry didn’t know what else he could do. At a loss, he began to him softly, some nameless, formless tune whose origins he couldn’t recall, if they had any. He leaned closer, hoping the sound would draw Luca out of whatever darkness he was trapped in. 

Something ugly curled in Henry’s guts, knowing it had to be  _ that _ night Luca was dreaming of. The glimpses Henry had revisited while he slept had felt… exultant. Like triumph. In his own dreams, he was an unrivaled hunter, lord and master over a raging wildfire, covered in blood not his own. 

Luca, though… Luca’s experience had been one of uncertainty and terror all night long. 

So Henry hummed, quietly, tenderly, running his fingers through Luca’s soft hair, hoping to transfer some of the joy he held in his heart for those woods. Eventually, the tears stopped. Then so too did the whimpers. Luca settled, nuzzling into Henry’s arm and gravitating toward his warmth. 

_ Well… damn.  _ Henry suspected if he tried leaving now, either the nightmares would return or his brother would wake. Thankfully, Luca’s bed was oversized for him. There was plenty enough room for them both—Henry stubbornly refused to consider he was also just not very big. So it was with only a moderate amount of bitten back cursing that Henry clambered up onto the bed with his brother, who unconsciously scooted over to make space for him after only a little bit of pushing on Henry’s part. Henry had just managed to lay on his left side when Luca squirmed close, curling up against Henry’s body, head tucked under his chin. 

He laid silently for what felt like a very long time, listening to his brother’s breathing, waiting to see if the nightmares came back. But Luca slept soundly, snoring and snuffling occasionally into Henry’s pajama top—which was actually just an old t-shirt of his Dad’s that Henry practically drowned in. It was more likely than not that Luca was going to punch him in his bad shoulder sometime during the night, or at bare minimum, drool all over him, but Henry didn’t mind. He’d rather he be the one that slept poorly anyway, if it had to be one of them. 

Come morning, Henry awoke in quite possibly the most agony he’d been in since first being shot. At some point during the night, he’d turned over onto his back, and Luca draped himself over Henry’s torso, not only laying directly on top of his arm in its sling but with his big, stupid head right over Henry’s gunshot wound. 

A stark reminder that Luca was literally the embodiment of all things evil in this world. The cherubic face was a ruse. 

Suppressing a pained grown and—to his utmost horror—blinking back tears he hadn’t even known were there, Henry carefully grabbed Luca by the back of his sleep shirt and dragged him to lay on the bed proper. Unfortunately, he wasted no time in weaseling his way closer to Henry again, latching onto his side like a warm, drooling magnet.

Henry tried prying Luca’s surprisingly strong grip off of his side. It only made his brother burrow closer, much to Henry’s growing irritation. Every second he had to feel the horrible, stinging pain in his shoulder was torture. It was like fire ants had dug under his skin or tiny, acid coated thorns had become embedded in the wound. 

Tugging at Luca’s arms again, he managed to annoy his brother enough into turning away from him with a quiet grumble. He grabbed the blanket and pulled it up over his head, snoring away once more. 

Finally free, Henry slid out of bed so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, another jarring action he really did not need on top of everything else. With a few steadying breaths, Henry hurried out of their room, noting that walking on his own was a bit easier that morning. Maybe he was finally getting his sea legs. 

Or maybe his body was too distracted by the inferno of pain that used to be his collarbone to remember his legs were supposed to be made of jelly. Either way, it meant he was able to shuffle out of the hall and toward the galley much faster than yesterday. 

As he passed through the main living area, Abigail called out to him, “Mornin’, Killer!” 

Henry stopped and wandered over to where the voice had come from. He found Abigail laying on the floor, her hair splayed out in every direction like she’d been shocked, with her legs up on the couch. An incredibly thick medical textbook was propped up on her stomach, obscuring most of her entire face. 

“Good morning,” he said, the words far more breathy and pained than he’d wanted them to sound. 

“Doing okay?” 

“Ye-” Henry stopped, corrected himself. “No. Where’s Papa?” 

She put the book aside and sat up on her elbows, scrutinizing his slightly hunched stance with narrowed eyes. “We’re the first ones up, far as I know. Us and the duck.” 

And where  _ was _ Paris? No animals had slept in their room last night, which had been a minor disappointment. Cephy was probably content staying with Dad, but the duck…? 

“How’s the shoulder?” Abigail asked, distracting Henry from his search of their immediate surroundings for a waddling bundle of brown feathers.

Henry blew out a breath and dropped onto the back of the couch, at first trying to look nonplussed before letting his face fall entirely. “Hurts like hell.” 

She laughed, like he expected she would, and heaved herself off the floor with a minimum of groaning. “Nurse Abigail to the rescue. Let’s get you some of the good stuff.”

Henry followed her to one of the many storage closets on the boat, this one being their dramatically enhanced version of a medicine cabinet and first aid kit. When Abigail pulled aside its folding door, Henry could only gawk at row upon row of clear plastic drawers, all stuffed to the gills with various medical sundry Henry could barely even begin to identify. At their feet were what Henry assumed were bags of saline. At the very top were dozens of bottles of medicine, some filled with liquid, others pills. 

Abigail hemmed and hawed about what to give him before selecting one of the pill bottles toward the front and shaking two out into her hand. “Here,” she said, dumping the meds into his upturned palm. “Don’t try to dry swallow them, you dork. Get some water.” 

Henry just stuck his tongue out. Satisfied when she stuck her own out in turn, Henry went off to do as she said, lingering in the galley once the pills were down. He should probably find somewhere to sit soon, before whatever it was Abigail gave him kicked in. Braining himself on the butcher block countertop because his pain meds suddenly made him drowsy would be a painfully stupid way to die.

But because everything hurt and he didn’t fancy moving more than absolutely necessary, Henry sat on the galley stool with a huff. He leaned against the counter, propping his head up on his left hand and stared listlessly out the window, watching the gentle lapping of the waves surrounding their yacht. For being so late in the year, the sun made everything look surprisingly warm and bright outside. Some parts of the water reflected so brilliantly, they looked near pearlesque.

Everyone must be sleeping really late, he decided, for the sun to be so high already. 

“I know Pops makes it look like magic, but the food doesn’t actually appear out of thin air, you know,” Abigail said from somewhere behind him. 

He didn’t turn, just continued staring out at the sea. “Not hungry.” 

“You need to eat with those pills,” she admonished, crossing from the archway where she’d been lurking to peer into the fridge. 

Henry grumbled, about to argue that their parents would probably be up soon, so he’d be eating shortly anyway, when he suddenly had to scramble to catch the orange his sister threw at him. It slipped past his hand, bouncing on the counter for a few heartbeats before Henry managed to slap his hand on it and stop its momentum. 

It was only after he had successfully retrieved his mandated fruit that he realized he was going to have to peel the thing with his  _ teeth  _ if he wanted to eat it, since it wasn’t like he could do it with one hand. 

He glared at Abigail, waiting for her to offer to help with the task, but no such offer was forthcoming.  _ Fine _ , he growled inwardly.  _ Be that way.  _ Henry kept eye contact with his sister as he sunk his teeth into the orange’s rind, ripping it away and spitting the torn off chunk onto the counter. When she did nothing but casually lean against the fridge in response, silently watching him, he dug into another part, tearing off more rind. 

It took several long, sticky minutes before Henry finally exposed enough of the flesh within to take a proper bite. It felt surprisingly satisfying. 

Abigail’s face finally cracked. “You’re an animal,” she wheezed between fits of laughter, holding onto her knees. Henry waited for her to look back up before taking another savage, even messier bite of the orange. At this point, he’d probably smeared more on his face and chin than actually consumed. 

“We’re all animals,” he told her, chewing noisily and with his mouth wide open. 

“I’m never feeding you again. You’re on your own!”

Henry snickered as he watched her leave the galley. Once she was out of sight, Henry hopped off his stool and went to the sink. He carefully put the orange down, trying to balance it on what was left of the shredded skin, and stuck his entire face under the faucet to wash off, fairly certain Papa would not be happy with his current state, especially after going through all the effort to get him clean the night before. 

He was just drying his face when there was a loud yawn from the living room, followed by Dad and Abigail’s quiet chatter and Anna’s excited babbling. Glad he’d washed up right away, Henry smiled and exchanged good mornings with Papa when he entered the room.

“Sleep well?” his father asked. He’d cast a displeased eye at the mangled orange, which Henry swiftly swept off the counter and into the garbage, along with the rind scraps. 

Swallowing the impulse to give a rote, automatic response, Henry said, “Not really. Slept wrong on my shoulder. Abigail gave me something for the pain, though.”  _ And then forced me to maul a piece of fruit.  _

Likely pleased Henry had directly sought help for his pain, Papa smiled warmly and began setting up the galley for breakfast preparation. “And how did Luca sleep?” 

Henry dropped onto the stool again and idly picked at a nail on his right hand, clawing at the uneven edge. “Not great either. I think he had some nightmares.” Papa’s arm paused mid-air right before placing a cutting board in front of Henry. “They didn’t last long,” Henry rushed to reassure. “Just for a little bit. He didn’t keep me up or anything. It was fine.” 

Papa seemed unconvinced. He hovered near Henry, studying his face. “Perhaps we were too hasty. I can ask Abigail to move the bed-” 

“No!” Henry shouted. He winced when he saw his father’s eyes widen slightly in response. “No,” he repeated, quieter this time. Plaintive. “It’s fine. I promise. It was only a few minutes.” 

“Was it?” Papa moved around him, his prep routine rebooted as he took out ingredients. Henry soon found himself facing a cutting board full of peppers and potatoes. As a knife was placed next to the vegetables, angled to be perfectly aligned with the edge of the board, Papa asked, “So he managed to soothe himself? That’s surprising. He’s always needed help from one of us in the past.” 

Henry inched the cutting board closer so that he could reach it with his restricted right hand. He figured just holding down the vegetables shouldn’t hurt his shoulder, right? The pain from the early morning had mostly faded by now, anyway. Still, he was wary of doing anything counter to his healing and, choosing to ignore the blatantly leading question, looked to Papa for his opinion. “Is this okay?” 

“Don’t use too much pressure, and it should be fine. Cut them into cubes and even strips, please.” 

Henry nodded and picked up the knife, sighing deeply at being forced to chop left-handed. He wasn’t so stellar at it even with his dominant hand. He couldn’t move his right arm much at all, but he angled his body and the board so that he could at least hold something down. 

_ Of course the one-armed boy is the sous chef. Not like there were two dual-armed adults just sitting around or anything.  _

Keeping his grumbling to himself, Henry went for the potatoes first since he assumed they were the most challenging, given his limited mobility. Papa was suspiciously quiet while they worked, frying things in a pan somewhere behind him. His father was normally content to cook quietly, but he tended to be chatty when someone else joined him in the kitchen. 

That could only mean he was waiting for an answer to his earlier question. Henry’s brows furrowed as he chopped, already annoyed at the outcome of this battle of wills. Papa was… patient. From the way the question was phrased, Henry was sure Papa already knew the truth. He had probably peeked in sometime during the night, as the door had been slightly ajar when Henry woke up. It had been closed shut after Luca was put to bed. 

Henry finished with the potatoes and was mentally debating with himself for a great many minutes about the proper way to cut a pepper when Papa broke the silence. 

“Your father slept terribly as well.”

“Did he?” Henry asked, rotating the pepper again and giving it a skeptical eye. 

“Yes.” Papa took pity on him then, swiftly slicing the ends off the pepper and removing the core. He unfolded the pepper in one fluid motion and cut out the inner white parts, handing Henry a neat stack of pepper sections before moving onto the next one. “His dreams have not always been kind to him.” 

Henry nodded and carefully chopped whatever was placed in front of him. “Hopefully when we’re home, he has nicer things to dream about. Wherever that ends up being.” 

“That still remains to be decided.” Papa had finished helping Henry but lingered nearby, not yet returning to his other tasks. 

After a few moments passed and Papa’s fingers began to tap on the countertop, Henry caved. “Did Dad say what his dreams were about?” 

“He so rarely does,” Papa answered at once, a very obvious sag to his body. “Perhaps he doesn’t wish to burden us with what troubles him. All I can do in the meantime is soothe him during the night.” 

_ Ah, there it was.  _ Tight-lipped, Henry merely nodded again, trying to ignore the knowing expression that slipped on his father’s face. 

“If I don’t, they only worsen, of course.”

“Of course.” Henry was taking his time dicing this last pepper, each pass of his knife getting smaller and smaller. 

Papa, being who he was, had to keep pushing. With a calculated sigh, he said, “I have to wonder if Luca was responding to Will’s distress during the night.” 

Henry’s mouth worked faster than his brain. “He wasn’t.” 

“Oh?”

These pieces of pepper were so small, they were nothing more than mush on the cutting board. He’d been expecting Papa to stop him at some point, but apparently, it was more important to drag this out of him than to insist on proper knife skills at the moment. “I only meant,” Henry started to say, hoping to talk  _ around _ this conversation rather than barrel straight through it. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything to say but the truth. “If it was Dad getting to him, I wouldn’t have been able to calm him down.”

“So he didn’t soothe himself after all.”

“No.” Henry could feel his Papa’s eyes on him, and he tried not to fidget.

“It’s touching that Luca finds such comfort by your presence. Are you embarrassed assuming a caretaking role with your brother, Henry?” Papa asked, tone even and offering little opinion or insight either way. 

Seeds from the peppers were stuck to the knife Henry was using, were stuck to his fingers. He tried to brush them off, but they only transferred from one finger to another. “No,” he mumbled, honest and more than a little exasperated. 

Papa was going to turn this into  _ a thing.  _

“Abigail may be your older sister, but the age difference is great enough that in many ways, you are like the eldest child, especially when she is away so often for school,” Papa said. “You’ve often had to take up the same mantle she had, that of a third parent to the children that came after. Many older children often resent such roles being placed on them, particularly at  so young an age.” 

Henry’s mouth twisted in a frown. “I’m not resentful. I love Luca and Anna.” 

“Of course you love them,” Papa said easily, running a hand through Henry’s uncombed hair. Henry saw the slight flicker in his father’s expression when he snagged a tangle—some mixture of amusement and displeasure. “But you can love them while also harboring some degree of justified annoyance or bitterness over having to be both their older brother and third father at times.” 

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if his father had felt the same for Aunt Mischa, but it struck Henry as a terrible thing to bring up right now, so he bit it back. To be honest, he already knew the answer would have been  _ no. _ Most stereotypes about the dynamic genders were made up anyway, a farce pushed by society, Henry knew that. Almost all behaviors were the result of either cultural conditioning or the dice roll of human experience. There were a few, however, that tended to run true, even if it was not to the degree society claimed. Even though he would be over a decade away from presenting, Papa had taken to caring for his little sister as a natural extension of his usual responsibilities, something done without hesitation or grievance. Abigail had done the same for… oh.

Henry saw where this conversation was going now. “I don’t mind,” he said, striving to be honest, although mentally he sighed to himself. He’d been worrying about this himself. Predicting how a person would present just based on childhood behaviors was often inaccurate and largely based on superstition or old wives’ tales. The only true way to know ahead of time was to do a blood test, something most parents did at birth nowadays. As neither Henry nor his siblings had been born at a hospital, his fathers were content with not knowing. Or at least, Henry had thought so. 

Turning a bit on his stool—because he couldn’t keep talking while simultaneously trying to set a pile of pepper paste on fire with his mind—Henry faced his father. He cleared his throat and tried to ignore the unsubtle look of pride directed at him.

“I’m not going to wake up one day bitter that taking care of Luca was my duty or something. I’m… He’s my responsibility because I’m older than him; I accept that. I don’t feel… resentful over it. Never have. I mean, sure, he can be annoying sometimes, but all brothers are annoying. I’m probably annoying.” Henry realized he was starting to ramble and bit his lip, mind racing to finish the conversation before Dad wandered in. “If I can be there for him, or Anna, and make them feel better, feel safe… Then I will. That’s it.” 

A corner of his father’s mouth quirked, just a bit. Slightly smug, if Henry had to put a name to it, like Papa had just won a bet. “I’m sure you will,” he said, tucking some of Henry’s messy hair behind an ear. “Breakfast won’t be long. Wash up, and could you ask Abi to go wake Luca?” 

Henry was glad he hadn’t been ordered to go do it himself. Going from either end of the boat felt like doing a cross-country run to him at the moment. Hands washed, he found Abigail and Dad still in the living room. Instead of sitting around chatting, they had made a game of gently tossing Anna back and forth between them on the couch. If the high-pitch, delighted squealing was anything to go by, she was having the time of her life. 

Abigail was dispatched to rouse the great and terrible beast, and Henry took her place on the couch. He smiled back at Anna when she gummily grinned at him. “Good morning.” He grabbed her tiny hand to give it a cordial shake. “Mornin’, Dad.” 

Compared to yesterday, his Dad actually looked well, eyes less haunted. The bruising was mostly gone; the only thing amiss was the bandage that remained on his face and the fact he still looked like he needed a week of sleep. 

“Hey, kiddo.” There was something slightly teasing in his expression, so Henry could only assume Papa had filled him in on last night’s sleeping arrangements. They irritatingly told each other everything. “Surprised to see you up so early. Figured Hannibal would still have you pretty doped up,” Dad said after a moment. 

“I don’t need much to be up and about,” Henry said, fingers held captive by Anna. “Luca slept on my bad shoulder, though, so I had to take something as soon as I was awake. Abi helped.” 

Dad’s eyes widened slightly at the admission. “I wasn’t sure whether to believe him last night. Just missing your brother or-”

“No, well…” Henry’s eyes darted away. This time he was a  _ little _ embarrassed. “Okay, yes, but that’s not why. He was having a nightmare. Me being close helped, so I just stayed with him.” 

“That was sweet of you.”

Henry didn’t really think so. Nothing he did for his brother was kind or sweet; it was just what needed to be done. Even the things that hurt. For lack of anything else to say on the matter, Henry shrugged his left shoulder slightly. He was getting better at remembering that. 

It was only a minute or two later that Luca emerged from the hallway. “Good morning!” In order to be sure he was heard, he shrieked as loud as possible, startling all three of them on the couch. The space behind the television barked once. 

Henry wasn’t going to question how or why Cephy had wedged herself there. 

Soon enough, Luca was prancing energetically into the living area, hair and teeth brushed—unlike Henry’s disheveled, bleary self—and lead them all into the galley and to their seats. He took his ushering duties very seriously and was not above physically dragging individuals by their sleeves. 

Breakfast went quickly, Henry freed from clean-up duty since he’d assisted—if only barely—with prep. He was given a small window of time to be out on the deck before he was commanded, and escorted, back to his room to be on oxygen again.

It was there that he and Papa finally found the duck, who had apparently disappeared at some point during the night. Dad had been worried she’d gone overboard. 

Papa let her continue napping in the sunbeam between the two beds and helped Henry get dressed in proper clothes instead of pajamas. 

Once he was settled in for the morning, Henry asked, “Will we be meeting Chiyoh soon?” 

“By nightfall, I believe. She has secured a place for us to stay, both for tonight and at the next rendezvous point. Provided transportation as well, something with proper car seats for Luca and Anna, which was thoughtful of her.” 

If Henry hadn’t been in agony and bleeding profusely at the time, he probably would have been just as annoyed as Papa about the unsafe conditions during their drive to the marina. Thinking about how much they owe Chiyoh for looking out for their safety, in countless ways, Henry suddenly remembered the brief conversation they’d had over breakfast the previous day. 

“Do you think we’ll ever see your aunt again? Would she recognize me?” 

“Of course,” Papa said with a warm smile. “I’ve sent her your picture every year. My letters, those she sends back. But not the photos.” 

That was a no to the first question, then. It hurt Henry’s heart to know that the only relative his father had outside of their small family didn’t want to speak with him. He had a better understanding now of that vague memory he had of his great aunt. It didn’t take much critical thinking on his part to figure out what caused the schism between the two of them. His fathers’ crimes were international news after they’d left the United States.

He supposed it was something of a silver lining that his aunt must have still felt  _ some  _ kind of attachment if she wanted to keep the pictures of her great-nephews and nieces. He hoped that brought comfort for his father, whenever he missed her. 

“I hope she answers them someday,” Henry said after a moment. If she could just look past… well, Henry supposed it wasn’t reasonable to expect the average person to overlook cannibalism and murder, but surely any kin of theirs was far from average? 

“I hope so too,” Papa admitted, so quietly Henry could almost suspect he hadn’t heard the words at all, chalked them up to his imagination, if he hadn’t seen his father’s lips move. With that, Papa was gone. 

Rather than being periodically checked on throughout the day, Henry was left with a bottle of his medication and a comically large—for him, anyway—bottle of water with strict instructions about his dosages. All the adults would be busy today preparing for what Henry was mentally calling their Spanish layover on their grand seafaring adventure. 

There were bags to be packed, small children and animals to be wrangled, and incriminating evidence to be stored away in various hidden compartments he knew were custom built into the boat, just in case suspicions held true and the vessel was stopped by a blockade. 

In just a few days, the next chapter of their lives would begin. They’d have to form new identities, take on new names—at least, the adults would, Henry wasn’t sure about the kids—and find somewhere to begin all over again. Henry thought he should probably be scared of the prospect, but this was something his fathers had planned for, however much they hoped it’d never come to pass. Knowing that at least the bare bones of their future was already in place took a lot of the anxiety out of the ordeal. 

Tomorrow was taken care of. So was the next day.

Whatever laid beyond… Henry’s eyes traveled to his bookshelf, where his tokens form his brushes with both sides of death lay. He should feel something like a pang of sorrow, thinking of that night. There should be rage at the loss, pain at his family’s suffering. And there was, there definitely was. But it was dwarfed by the exhilaration, the joy of victory, the thrill of the hunt.

If he closed his eyes, Henry could almost feel the weight of a blade in his hand again, smell the metallic scent of blood.  _ Next time _ , Henry thought with giddiness. He could hardly wait for the next time.

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't lyin' in the tags, there's a _lot_ of napping in this fic.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [jones-of-shark](https://jones-of-shark.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️  
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry takes a lot of naps and unlocks some Parent Lore.

By the time Henry finished his book, it was well into the afternoon, and not only was he  _ bored,  _ he was also sick to death of breathing in plasticky air. He might not be able to smell anything, but he was starting to worry he’d never get the taste out of his mouth. 

Feeling adventurous, he unhooked himself from his oxygen and carefully made his way to the boat’s helm. Most of the living space was on the first level, with some storage and the engines below. The second level had the navigation and an upper deck that Henry assumed was meant for luxurious sunbathing and fancy drinks. 

Henry found his Dad alone, staring out at the ocean, calm and focused. The trip from his room hadn’t been easy, especially given the boat’s fast pace, and Henry was terribly tired and a little sore from bumping into walls. His father probably heard his labored breathing when he was only halfway up the stairs. 

“What are you doing up here?” Dad hadn’t even turned, eyes still trained out the window. 

Huffing an annoyed breath, because  _ Papa _ would have rushed over to help, probably, Henry shuffled the few steps between him and a plush, white leather chair big enough for three of him and fell into it with a relieved groan. He was immensely grateful he’d remembered to bring some of his meds with him. Except this was a different brand of pain reliever than he’d had before, and the lid wasn’t cooperating with him. After failing for several minutes to figure out how to open the child-safe bottle with one hand—and getting annoyed at how accurate the name was proving to be—Henry collapsed back against the chair with a sigh. 

“Thought you were gonna teach me how to sail,” he said, glaring at his Dad’s back, who just laughed and turned to lean against the controls, arms folded in front of his chest. 

“And I will. When we have something with an actual  _ sail  _ on it. Save the bigger things for when you’re older.” 

“Is this like when you said you’d teach me to ride a bike but wouldn’t let me drive the truck?”

“Exactly.”

Henry made a show of sitting up, peering around his father’s legs. “Don’t see any pedals this time.” 

“Me saying no to the driving lessons wasn’t just about the fact you couldn’t reach the pedals, kiddo,” Dad said, a single brow arched. Henry would have mimicked the look back at him, but just the thought of trying made his face ache. 

“Fine,” he mumbled in response. He placed the bottle between his knees, trying to get a decent grip. The instructions on the cap felt like they were mocking him. He  _ was  _ pinching, goddammit. 

His father was watching him, amusement and pity warring for dominance on his face. Finally, after several long moments of struggle, Henry had to admit defeat. If he wanted relief, it wasn’t going to come to him without assistance. 

Turning his wide eyes up at his Dad, Henry held the bottle out, shaking it slightly so that its elusive contents rattled. “Help?” 

“It’s like looking in a mirror,” said Dad in a dry tone, though he did come forward to take the bottle and popped the cap off. He dumped out a few pills into Henry’s hand. 

As Henry downed the meds with a gulp of water from the bottle he’d cleverly brought along, Dad reached down, twirling one of Henry’s curls between his fingers. “’Cept for the lack of brain boiling fever. And I don’t think my hair was  _ ever _ this long. Think Papa would let me cut it?” 

Henry snorted a laugh into his water. “No. I wouldn’t try if I were you.” 

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Dad grinned wide, despite how it probably hurt his cheek. Maybe he was on a pain regime too. He dropped into the chair next to Henry’s, where he could still see clearly out the window. “I swear he pouts for three days, at least, every time I sneak out for a trim.” 

“That’s generous.” 

“No, I actually counted the last time. It was eighty-one hours exactly.”

Shaking his head, Henry reclined back, getting comfortable. It’d be a while before the new soreness he’d earned from his trek to ebb away, so he tried to relax in the meantime. “I meant that  _ he _ was generous, only pouting. Could have bribed all the barbers within a hundred miles not to serve you. Or something worse.” 

After a heartbeat of silence, Henry lolled his head to the side to see his Dad blinking at him slowly. “I never went to the same one twice, if I could help it,” he admitted. “Usually waited until he was already busy for the day and wouldn’t notice if I was gone for an hour or two.”

“Someone might say that going to such lengths is a sign of shame for your deceitful behavior.” 

_ “Someone,”  _ Dad parroted with a chuckle. “A self-aggrandizing psychiatrist, maybe. We know any of those? Don’t try any of his tricks on me, boy.” 

Henry giggled at the deliberate drawl his Dad had affected at the end. Sometimes, when he had indulged in a little too much whiskey late at night, it slipped back into his voice. Henry was always fascinated whenever he heard it. When he was younger, he’d tried asking his Dad about it, but he would never tell him anything.

Henry’s fathers had been so  _ stingy _ with their past, as if to speak of it would bring all the awful things they left behind back into their lives like some terrible curse. And yet, despite their efforts, the past found them anyway. 

Since it was just the two of them upstairs, Henry turned in his seat to face his father directly. He was quiet for a minute, wondering how to pose his question, and was irritated to realize he’d begun to nervously pick at the stitching in the chair. Stilling his hand, he asked, as casually as he could, “So… is that accent actually real?” 

Dad shrugged. “As real as any.” When Henry only sat quietly, waiting for an elaboration, Dad deflated slightly. “Yeah, it’s real. I grew up all along the southern coast—mostly in Louisiana. Was a cop in New Orleans until I got stabbed and left to try to join the FBI. After a while it just kind of faded away.” 

Resting his chin on his left hand, Henry asked, “Do you have any family left back in your hometown?” 

“I… never really had a hometown,” Dad slowly said. Henry internally winced, knowing he’d stepped into some kind of emotional land mine. He waited patiently for his Dad to decide whether he wanted to revisit this particular wound. After a moment, he took a breath. “We moved around a lot. After Mom left. Dad fixed boats for a living, always going where the work was. It’s not easy now, but back when I was a kid, being a single omega parent was… He did the best he could. Anyway, I don’t know if—if he’s… Before I met Hannibal, we hadn’t spoken in years. And after…” Dad paused, gaze avoiding Henry’s for a second before seemingly forcing himself to look back at his son. “Besides my dad, I have a cousin in New York, near my age. My aunt died of cancer when we were both pretty young. One of the last times Dad called me was because Adam’s father had passed away suddenly, and he wanted me to attend the funeral since I lived a lot closer. But I… just didn’t go. I should have.” He sighed. “That’s all I’ve got. If you were hoping for more, I’m sorry.” 

Henry understood. Even if his grandfather was still alive, it’d be like his great aunt all over again, perhaps worse. The Lady Murasaki hadn’t reported them to the authorities, after all, despite knowing exactly where they were living for years. Grandpa Graham might not be so generous. And it didn’t seem like his Dad knew his cousin very well, anyway. 

“That’s okay,” Henry said, summoning what he hoped was a nonchalant grin. “I was just curious, but I appreciate the family tree run down. Or the family stump, I guess.” That made Dad laugh at least, so Henry didn’t feel so bad for bringing up old baggage. He glanced at the complicated control panel a few feet away, fishing for a new topic. “How much longer until we reach Spain?” 

“I am  _ so _ not looking forward to tomorrow’s drive. At least on the boat I can hide from all the  _ Are-We-There-Yet’s,” _ Dad grumbled, although he was hiding a small smile as he rose from his chair. 

Henry waited for a more detailed answer to his question, watching his Dad pour over a map spread out in front of him. He knew they’d be arriving at the marina near Valencia sometime that night but was curious as to how soon that would be. He also might have been a tiny bit curious about meeting Chiyoh. 

“Should be… eight or nine hours, maybe,” Dad finally said. “I’ll probably stay up here through dinner, just push through.” He sat down in what Henry could only describe as the Captain’s Chair, high-backed and impressively regal. Dad suddenly spun it to stare at Henry with narrowed eyes. “Does Papa know you’re up here?” 

“Nope.” Henry twisted himself until he was laying sideways across the chair he had claimed for his own, swinging his legs up to dangle over the thick armrest. His torso was  _ just _ short enough to fit neatly in the seat, leaving his neck and head to rest on the opposite armrest without putting any pressure on his shoulders. 

Dad watched as he got settled, waited until Henry had stopped wiggling and let out a contented sigh. “Comfy?” 

_ No.  _ The armrests were considerably less cushioned than the seat was. “Yep.” His neck already hurt a little. 

Shaking his head with a laugh, Dad turned his chair to face out the window again. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” 

“I am resting. I’m at rest.” 

“Right. Well, far be it from me to argue letter of the law versus spirit, but I have a feeling Hannibal isn’t going to be happy when he finds you out of bed.” 

“I finished my book,” Henry whined. He tossed the water bottle between his hands, debating whether he could flip it in the air and catch it without taking a blow to the ribs. Or his face.

“And rather than finding another one, you choose to come annoy me instead?” 

Henry rolled his eyes. “I’m not annoying you.” 

“You’re distracting me. There might be a tiny iceberg out here. I could hit it because I wasn’t paying enough attention. The only survivor would be Paris.” 

“I’ll be quiet then, I promise,” Henry said with a snort as he carefully peeled off the bottle’s label centimeter by centimeter. In all honesty, he probably  _ should _ have brought another book with him. He didn’t want to actually be a distraction for his Dad. But if nothing else, he could always nap. He certainly wasn’t going to try going  _ down _ those stairs on his own. 

After a while, Dad seemed to forget he was there. Henry watched him watching the sea, occasionally drinking out of a thermos that probably contained lukewarm coffee by now. 

The swaying of the boat felt more pronounced higher up, but that might have just been Henry’s imagination. He finally got the label off his bottle and spent ages folding and refolding the flimsy, slippery plastic. At one point, it vaguely resembled a foot, and Henry felt inexplicably pleased about that. 

Eventually, sufficiently bored and mostly pain-free, even in his crumpled up position, Henry did nap. It wasn’t as pleasant of a sleep as it would have been in his bed—and sometimes something on the boat’s console would beep and wake him—but it was good enough. Ever since coming to after his surgery, fatigue was an omnipresent spectre with his every waking moment. Were he not sure that it was only temporary, this blatant, constant weakness would slowly be driving him mad.

It would likely drive him mad anyway if it lasted much longer. 

Henry shifted in his chair, turning so his bad shoulder wasn’t touching anything. As he did so, he noticed the hushed voices that must have woken him paused briefly, waiting for him to return to sleep. He tried keeping his breathing slow and even as he listened to the conversation resume. 

“Are you sure you won’t join us?” Papa asked quietly. 

“Yeah, I’d rather we get there sooner than later, before the kids get too tired.” 

There was a pause before footsteps approached him. He felt a gentle hand run through his hair. Papa. “How long has he been like this?” 

“Couple hours. To be honest, I’ve wanted to wake him for a while. That can’t be good for his neck.” 

“He’s fine,” Papa whispered. “Aren’t you, Henry?” 

Henry tried, he really did, to keep his face completely neutral, but he could  _ feel _ his father looming over him, watching for even the slightest twitch. He peeked an eye open and confirmed, yep, there was Papa, hovering over Henry’s balled-up form, eyes crinkled and amused. 

“Hi,” Henry mumbled. His father smoothly stepped away as Henry unfolded himself and turned to sit properly in the chair. His mouth felt dry and stuck together, and he looked around for where his water had rolled off to before it was simply dropped onto his lap. 

As Henry drank his water gratefully, Papa perched on the arm of the chair, patient and still, waiting. Henry was reluctant to lower the bottle. 

Papa didn’t let his stalling tactic fly. “Did you agitate your shoulder sleeping like that?” His tone was mild and even, which was always more worrying than when he sounded legitimately annoyed or frustrated. 

Henry quickly took stock of his various aches and pains. The pain reliever he took before his nap was still mostly doing its job, and he felt no worse for wear. Perhaps the bruising on his middle hurt some, given he had curled up during his nap, but he wasn’t about to bring that up. “I feel fine,” he answered honestly. “A lot better than I did this morning.” 

“Good,” Papa said, brushing some hair out of Henry’s face. It fell back instantly. “Then you have no need to look so concerned. Although next time you choose to nap elsewhere than your room, you could let me or Abigail know?” 

“Or leave a note,” Dad chimed in. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him fly up stairs that fast, looking for you.” 

Henry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It wasn’t like he was going to fall  _ overboard _ or something. And even if he had, Henry was confident he could tread water, even with one arm, long enough to be rescued. Granted, the boat  _ was  _ moving along rather fast… They’d be pretty far before they realized he was gone. Henry looked sheepish then, his mind having followed the same track his Papa’s had. “Sorry,” he said. 

Papa waved the apology away. He gracefully stood and held a hand out to Henry. “Now, if you’re feeling up for it, I could use some assistance in the kitchen.” 

Papa’s methods for keeping an eye on Henry were  _ not _ subtle; apparently he was to be relegated to sous chef duty for the foreseeable future.

Having Papa there while they went back down the stairs was a relief, and Henry was more convinced than ever that he definitely would have tripped and broken something else had he tried descending on his own earlier. 

In the galley, Henry was dumped on his stool—it’s his now, no one else could lay claim to it—and given a knife. He briefly debated whether it would be worth it to have an  _ accidental _ slip, blame it on the drugs for his lack of coordination. On the one hand, that’d guarantee it’d be a long time before he got dragged into a kitchen again, but on the other… he wasn’t keen on seeing his own blood again any time soon. Plus, it wasn’t so bad, spending time with Papa. His current limitations were what frustrated him. But he was getting used to using his immobile right hand and eventually lost himself to the repetitive motion of his knife, mindlessly cutting whatever was in front of him until the board disappeared. 

Dinner felt odd without Dad there, but Papa and Abigail fell into a lengthy conversation about her latest semester, her finals, and how they were going to go about getting her transcripts without tripping any alarms so that she might resume her education in whatever country they settle in. Henry kept Luca from getting bored by making faces at him when neither of the adults were looking. 

Once everyone had finished, Papa retrieved a plate he’d put aside and kept warm in the oven and took it, along with the baby, upstairs. When he didn’t return right away, Abigail groaned and began to clear the table on her own, grumbling all the while. She shot a glare at Henry, who was taking a long, leisured sip of his water, on one of her return trips from the sink. 

“C’mon, Luca, let’s go watch something on TV,” Henry said, gleefully balancing his empty glass onto the stack of dishes his sister was compiling. 

Luca looked unsure for a second, noting Abigail’s prominent scowl, but when she didn’t say anything, he shrugged and hopped off his chair. “Okay! Can we get-”

“We’ll find your duck, don’t worry.”

After dropping Luca off in the living room, Henry began his search for both the family’s critters, careful to hold onto the walls when he could. There was no telling when they’d randomly pick up speed again—Dad had only slowed while dinner was prepped and they ate. The duck was easy enough to find, camped out in front of one of the outer doors leading to the deck, not far from where Luca was waiting. There was actually a doggy door she could have used to go outside, but Henry looked up at the gray skies, thought about how cold and biting the wind would be out there, and couldn’t blame her for settling for the nice view while staying inside where it’s warm. 

Henry briefly contemplated the physics in lifting the bird with one arm and decided against it. Luca could fetch her himself. 

The dog, unfortunately, was not as swiftly found. She wasn’t underneath any of the tables or behind the television anymore. Nor was she foolishly out on the deck, getting wet from errant sprays from the ocean—something Abigail had mentioned she had found the dog doing earlier that afternoon. This meant Cephy had likely snuck into one of the staterooms while everyone else was preoccupied with dinner. 

Rather than exhaust himself searching each room, Henry leaned against the entrance to the hall. “C’mere, Cephy!  _ Ceph!”  _ When there was no sign she’d heard him—or was inclined to remove herself from whatever comfy spot she’d found—Henry wished the  _ full name of shame _ worked on dogs. Still, there were other ways to get her attention. “Dinner time!” 

Down the hall, Henry heard a sudden, loud  _ thump _ and the scrabbling of nails against a hardwood floor. Cephy emerged excitedly from his fathers’ room, which had Henry wondering if she was just too dumb to remember where she wasn’t allowed or whether an animal was capable of petty spite. 

She followed after him when Henry strode away from the hall and back to his brother, who had indeed retrieved his duck and was patiently sitting with her on the couch. Henry managed to snag Cephy’s collar before she could go for a playful leap and bowl over both bird  _ and _ boy. 

_ “Stay,”  _ Henry commanded. He waited a few seconds to see if he’d actually be obeyed this time. Cephy seemed to settle, slightly, although she was still damn near vibrating with excitement at seeing her new best friend. Luca gave her a wary eye. 

Slowly, very slowly, Henry released the collar. Cephy stayed put. 

Henry was relieved and surprised when she  _ continued _ to stay put, even when he stepped away to pop on a movie, choosing something he didn’t plan on paying a great deal of attention to. Not long after the bright, musical intro for whatever animated cartoon he’d selected, Henry felt Cephy crawl under his legs where he was seated next to Luca and fall asleep. He was full and warm, listening to his dog snore and his brother giggle and attempt to sing along to the movie—which consisted mostly of garbled noises and made up lyrics.

Henry never even noticed his eyes closing.

When he next woke, he was alone. 

No dog, no duck, and certainly no brother. The television was off, but most of the lights on the yacht were on. He was covered in a blanket that hadn’t even been in the room earlier. 

Henry shot up faster than he should have, heart thumping. A million outlandish, panicked scenarios had sprung to mind, but after a few deep breaths, he was able to dismiss them with a few seconds of critical thought. The noise from anything truly disastrous would have woken him. His fathers or siblings would have certainly woken him, too, if something had happened. Even Paris or Cephy probably would have alerted him to trouble. So, unless they were all silently abducted by aliens or dispatched by ninjas that, bafflingly, had left him for last, his family was safe. 

He was safe.

Henry took another deep breath and shook off the blanket, noticing when he went to stand that the boat was still. He peered out the door leading to the deck, and instead of ocean, he saw buildings in the distance, their windows lit up against the night like a dozen pairs of eyes in the dark. Below them, he saw a deserted marina. Further down, closer to the boat, his family were standing on the dock, talking with a serious looking woman. Chiyoh, he assumed. 

Dad was holding Luca and Anna, one in each arm, and both looked to be soundly asleep against his shoulders. Abigail had a leash for Cephy wrapped around her hand as she chatted with Papa and Chiyoh. There was also a crate by her feet, and while Henry couldn’t see into it at this distance, he had a fairly good idea as to who was inside. 

Abigail noticed him standing by the door first and waved animately before gesturing him to come join them. She must have said something while Henry fiddled with the door latch, because as soon as he had shoved it open, Papa was halfway up the small dock they were tied to. 

Henry leaned against the open doorway, breathing in the cool night air, and waited. 

“Did you sleep well?” Papa asked as soon as he was close enough. He ran his hands down Henry’s hair and to his neck, like he could find all of Henry’s hurts and ailments just by touching him. At Henry’s nod, he said, “I’m glad. We were just about to wake you before Chiyoh set off. I’m surprised you managed to sleep through the evening.” 

Henry couldn’t imagine the rest of his family disembarking would be  _ that _ chaotic. Luca could be considerate when he wanted to. But then he looked at his dog, who was pulling on her leash in an attempt to get to Henry, now that she’d noticed him, and he heard Paris quack in displeasure in her crate. Getting her inside it must have been a ruckus all on its own. 

“Me too,” Henry said as he was carefully led off the boat and onto the dock. His legs weren’t nearly as unsteady as they had been lately; now that he was on solid ground, so to speak, his balance wasn’t much of an issue anymore. But the support and warmth from his father as he clung to his arm was nice, and he’d be reluctant to let go any time soon. 

Dad glanced over at them when they approached, a tired smile on his face as he rocked his body slightly to keep the tiny children in his arms asleep. “Excited to sleep in a real bed? It’s been a while.” 

Henry wasn’t sure if that was a pot-shot at his choice of napping locations today or if there was something he found objectionable about their beds on the boat. Knowing Papa, they were just as high quality as the ones that had been at the house. 

Too groggy to come up with a proper response, Henry just shrugged. He let his head fall to rest against Papa’s arm as he looked up at Chiyoh. She gave him a brief nod in acknowledgment before turning to Papa, likely picking up exactly where they had left off before Henry’s arrival. 

Henry didn’t pay attention to a word of it. While it wasn’t especially cold tonight, the wind coming off the ocean was freezing. He shivered slightly at a sudden gust and immediately felt his father subtly maneuver them so that Henry was shielded from it. 

When there was a lull in conversation, Henry to looked up from where he’d been resting against his father’s chest. Chiyoh was staring at him curiously—the bruises on his face, the sling, how exhausted he must still look even after sleeping for half the day. 

“What happened to the boy?” she asked once she finished giving him a once-over. 

Henry had just about enough energy to feel indignant over being referred to as  _ the boy;  _ he was  _ sure _ she knew his name. He answered her before anyone else could. “Hunting accident.”

“What were you hunting?” 

“Something that shot  _ back _ ,” Henry answered, gesturing to his shoulder with a quick jerk of his head. 

She considered for a moment before saying, “A bullet did not do that to your face.” 

“No, a fist did.”  _ Mostly, anyway.  _ “I gutted that one.” 

Henry wasn’t sure what response he was expecting out of her, but it was not for Chiyoh look him over again before nodding once. “Good.” 

The hand on Henry’s left shoulder squeezed slightly, and when Henry tilted his head up, he saw his father smiling down at him, full of pride. 

He returned his attention to Chiyoh, who was still watching him with interest. Even if his great aunt could never accept their family the way they were, that didn’t seem to extend to her employee. Chiyoh was going to considerate lengths to protect them, knowing full well what they’d done. 

“You never visited us in Italy,” he said. “Will you come see us at our new home?” 

She blinked at him in surprise and glanced at Papa. “I had not planned on it.”  _ I was not invited to,  _ her eyes also seemed to say. 

“Well, you should,” Henry declared. If the woman was willing to commit who knew  _ how _ many felonies in multiple countries, just to keep them safe and make their transition to a new life go smoothly—and had done so time and time again—she was an honorary member of the family. At the very least, she deserved a place at their dinner table on occasion.  _ At _ . 

When Henry remained unshakable in his determination under Chiyoh’s critical gaze, she knelt so that they were more eye to eye. Unlike when Agent Crawford had done it, Henry did not feel patronized. “For you,” she said with something approaching a smile, “I will think about it. But for now, I believe I should get going if I want to make our rendezvous on time.” 

“Of course, we wouldn’t want to keep you,” Papa said. 

Dad took a small step forward, his arm twitching like he wanted to shake Chiyoh’s hand before he realized it was occupied. “Thank you, for everything. You don’t know how much this means to us.” 

“I know,” was all Chiyoh said before turning and heading to the boat. Dad stared after her for a moment before nodding to Abigail, who handed off Cephy’s leash to Papa and started untying the ropes that fastened the boat to the dock. 

They all waited until they heard the engines start up, watched as their home for the last few days drifted off, heading down the coast. 

Henry didn’t know what Dad was waiting for, maybe for the ship to suddenly explode, another sign of their recent, less than stellar luck, but nothing happened except for the boat becoming smaller and smaller in the distance. 

Papa wasn’t as willing to wistfully stare out at sea and deftly grabbed the keys that were partially sticking out of Dad’s back pocket. “Shall we?” he asked, waving them in front of Dad’s face, somehow without letting them jingle and disturb the sleeping babies. 

Dad blinked briefly before looking out at the parking lot ahead of them. “Yeah, okay. I think she said the car was right, uh-”

Papa pressed a button on the key fob and a pair of lights flashed in the nearest parking space. 

“There, I guess.”

Cephy must have heard some beeping outside of Henry’s range of hearing, because she started to whine and pull forward, as eager as any of them to get this show on the road. Papa laughed and let himself be pulled—and by extension, Henry, who hadn’t let go of his father’s arm this whole time. As they passed Dad, Papa leaned over to kiss both his husband’s cheek and the top of his youngest son’s head. Luca had started to stir, but only made a sleepy nose and nuzzled closer to Dad.

“So I’ve got the duck then?” Abigail asked from somewhere behind them.

“If you wouldn’t mind, darling,” Papa called back.

Henry glanced over his shoulder to see Abigail blow some hair out of her face as she grabbed the crate’s handle, hauling it along with the bag slung over her shoulder. Inside, Paris quacked as she was lifted, indignant as usual, but at least she wasn’t thrashing around within the crate.

Papa, with the help of Cephy, dragged Henry all the way to their rented—borrowed? stolen?—car for the next few days, some kind of large, luxury minivan. If it was any bigger, Henry thought it could pass for one of those airport shuttles people hated being stuffed into.

Leaning against the cool, black exterior, Henry watched as his sleeping siblings were gently transferred from Dad’s arms to their respective car seats in the second row. Both Cephy and Paris were deposited in the very back, on the floor, although Henry was sure Cephy was going to jump up at the first opportunity. 

A warm hand on his face startled Henry, and he looked up to see Papa smiling down at him. “Do you want to sit up front with Dad or lay down in the back?” 

“How long until we get to the hotel?”

Papa looked to Dad, who was tapping away on a phone Henry didn’t recognize—a burner courtesy of Chiyoh, he suspected. “Little under forty minutes, and it’s not a hotel.” 

“Up front then,” Henry said. He was tired—he was always tired—but that didn’t seem too long to wait to be back in bed. Of course, the seatbelt posed an immediate problem, as it would lay directly across his bad shoulder. There was some debate between his parents about whether he should just go in the back anyway or only putting it across his lap, but his fathers ultimately dismissed the latter idea as unsafe. In the end, they settled on digging out one of Papa’s sweaters, folding it several times over, and situating it between Henry’s shoulder and the seatbelt, both to alleviate the pressure and prevent any sudden stops from jarring the wound. 

It also doubled as a conveniently placed pillow. Once everyone had piled in—Abigail quietly hissing at the duck to leave her alone, all the way in the back row—Henry found his head drooping onto the folded sweater.  

They’d only been on the road a few minutes when his Dad nudged him with the phone. Henry’s eyes had fallen closed by that point, and it was a struggle to pry them open again to stare down at the device suddenly being put in his hand. 

“Need you to read out the directions. I could give it to Hannibal, but you’re closer.”

“Sure,” Henry said with a shrug. “It’s a left, then the first exit at the roundabout, onto the uh, CV-500.” The app translated most things into English. The rest he had to piece together from similarities to French and Italian. 

“Great. Thanks, Henry.” Dad shot him a quick grin before adjusting the rear-view mirror and reverting his attention to the road. In the mirror, Henry caught a glimpse of Papa seated behind him. He was turned in his seat to lean over a half-asleep Luca, humming something so quiet Henry couldn’t quite make it out. It seemed familiar. 

“So, what’s next?” Henry asked after a few minutes on the highway. “After we get the boat back from Chiyoh.” 

“We’re still working on that,” Dad said. He drummed his fingers on the wheel before adding, “Specifically, Chiyoh’s going to be checking on how much of our identities and assets were uncovered before we make any more plans. The less they found, the more choices we have.” 

Henry wondered what sort of  _ choices _ were honestly left for their family. As much as the idea intrigued him, he knew the United States was out of the question, at least for now. With Agent Crawford alive, news of what happened at their old home will have reached the American authorities. His fathers had probably soared right back to the top of the FBI’s most wanted with how much death and destruction they’d left behind. 

France was also out, as it’d be the first place they’d look, likely leading to no small amount of questioning and harassment for his great aunt, if her relationship to Papa was known. He’d have to ask about that. 

Henry realized with an inward groan that unless they settled in Australia, he was going to have to learn another language, a prospect he was sure Papa will find absolutely delightful. Speaking  _ three _ languages was apparently not satisfactory for a Lecter child, and there had been talk just a few weeks ago of having German, Russian, or Japanese added to Henry’s lessons. 

While Henry was dreading future homework, the phone vibrated in his hand, giving him the next direction to relay. He probably could have just turned on the automated voice, but that hadn’t been what was asked of him. Turned out, Chiyoh had found them a secluded beach house for the night. It was a squat thing, raised up on a platform and surrounded on three sides by a high fence. 

Probably someone’s vacation home that they rented out during the cooler months. 

The goal, as Henry understood it, was the get the kids settled into bed as soon as possible. Henry assumed that included him, and frankly, he wasn’t opposed. The adults all teamed together to get their bags and charges into the house, although Luca came dangerously close to waking when Dad struggled with getting the key into the lock. Henry took pity on him after watching for a full minute and took over.

Granted, it wasn’t that much easier for  _ Henry _ either, but at least it was less embarrassing for the half-asleep kid to fail at unlocking a door than the grown man. After finally hearing something click, Henry pushed the door wide open, dramatically sweeping his good arm out to beckon his fathers entrance. 

Dad rolled his eyes and marched in, but he and Papa were definitely holding in their laughter so they wouldn’t wake the babies. Henry just knew it. 

Once the lights were on inside, Henry was more impressed with the quality of the house than he’d been expecting. It didn’t look like much on the outside—and it was definitely not intended to be lived in full time—but inside it was nice enough. Spacious and open-plan, everything laid out to funnel the eye to the back wall covered with enormous curtains. A huge window lay behind, Henry assumed, offering what was probably a spectacular view of the sea when it wasn’t the middle of the night. 

The kitchen was larger than the one on the boat, although not by much. From the neatly folded grocer bags on the counter, he knew Chiyoh had even made sure to carefully select and put away some food prior to their arrival. 

There were only two bedrooms, but both were massive. The larger of the two also had a cradle set up next to the bed. Each of Henry’s fathers disappeared into a different room to put a child to bed, leaving Henry alone with Abigail and the pets in the living area. He wandered over to the back window and pulled back the curtain, only to discover there was actually a sliding door, leading out to an elevated porch. 

Henry leaned back and listened carefully, checking to see if his parents were still preoccupied getting Luca and Anna settled. Abigail had collapsed on one of the couches, an arm thrown over her face, not paying attention to him in the slightest. When he heard no footsteps, nor did Abigail show signs of moving any time soon, he quickly unlatched the lock on the door and stepped outside. 

Henry had half-entertained the thought that he might be able to see their boat from here, but the water was empty, save for reflections of the night sky. Was Chiyoh even going to sleep between now and when they met up again, further down the coast? It was going to take them at least seven hours to drive to the rendezvous point, but it’d take her much, much longer to sail there. He wondered how long they’d end up waiting at the second location, without knowing if she was successful in her mission, if she was even coming. What would they do then? To prevent that thought from spiraling, Henry concentrated on the stars above, trying to find where they were similar and different from home. 

What  _ was _ their home.

Would there be anything familiar at all about the new place? 

“Haven’t tired of the sea yet?” Papa asked, suddenly appearing behind Henry. He hadn’t heard his father approach, but a quick glance down confirmed that he had already divested himself of his shoes. Henry supposed that meant he’d be shuttled off to bed soon. 

“Not yet.” Henry turned to lean against the railing and noticed his father looked about as tired as Henry felt. 

“That’s fortunate, then. You have many weeks of ocean views to look forward to.” 

“That long?” 

Papa rested against the glass door, looking up at the sky like Henry had. “We’ll be less likely to run afoul of Uncle Jack, or anyone else for that matter, once we’re on the open sea,” he said. “There won’t be as much of a need to rush as we have.” 

Henry’s nose wrinkled in distaste, causing him to flinch when he was sorely reminded why he shouldn’t move his nose. At all. “I hate it when you call him that.” 

“Oh?” Papa tilted his head, intrigued. At least he didn’t pretend he didn’t know what Henry was talking about. 

“He’s not my uncle. Or yours, or Dad’s. He kept calling me  _ son _ while you weren’t there. I hated that too.” 

Papa reached out to rub a comforting hand down Henry’s good arm. Tension he hadn’t realized was starting to build slowly seeped out of his body at the touch. “If it eases your mind, the nickname has never been especially sincere.”

It didn’t. Henry glowered at the wooden slats beneath their feet in lieu of responding. 

“Is your annoyance rooted in such an appellation being applied to a stranger?” Papa asked after a few breaths of silence. That sounded…  _ closer,  _ Henry supposed. It certainly was what fueled his foul mood whenever the man called him  _ son.  _

“In that case, do you have the same objection to Aunt Murasaki? Or Grandpa Graham?” 

_ Of course  _ Dad had told him about that. “That’s different,” he said, still glaring. 

“How so? Both are complete strangers to you. They mean no more to you than Jack Crawford did.”

“They mean something to  _ you.”  _

Papa shrugged. “So did he, once upon a time. More recently than either my aunt or your grandfather.” 

_ And who’s to blame for that,  _ Henry thought with an unexpected rush of viciousness. He fought to keep the surprisingly nasty feeling that had bubbled up in his chest off his face, turning quickly to look back toward the beach. His gut instinct, in order to stomp down the turn his thoughts had taken, would be to say it wasn’t his fathers’ fault. But  _ what _ wasn’t their fault? The estrangement of what little was left of the family tree on both sides, the constant shuffling of identities, the unending pursuit by authorities that they will inevitably have to endure for their  _ entire _ lives? All of it could be laid right at his fathers’ feet. 

Henry didn’t think he was angry about that, any of it, but maybe in a small way, he kind of was. He’d brushed it off earlier, but he couldn’t deny that he rather  _ liked _ the idea of having more family, of loving grandparents out there, eagerly awaiting the day they can meet him. He was already a well-adored child, he knew that, so he wasn’t sure where the desire or sudden need was coming from. Maybe it was just the fatigue clouding his mind, or the fact he could more easily name the parts of his body that  _ didn’t _ hurt than the other way around. 

With a sigh, he looked over his shoulder at Papa, who was watching him with a careful, guarded consideration. Even though he’d tried to hide it right away, that bitterness he was feeling had likely shown on his face. Henry vaguely recognized the look as the one Luca bore after one of his favorite ducks had bitten him, and he was unsure if they’d do it again. 

“Please tell me someone brought some painkillers,” Henry said, only having to partially fake the grimace on his face. 

“Of course,” Papa said, letting the topic drop and sliding the door open behind him. The previous wariness to his expression was gone, at least for the moment. “Do you need some now?” 

Henry nodded and was lead back inside, where he noticed Cephy had flopped over on one of the loveseats, her tail thumping loudly when she saw Henry emerge from outside. Dad came out of the master bedroom as they reached the kitchen, already changed into sleep clothes, and offered Henry a quick wave before starting to unfold the largest couch. Apparently, it was a bed. 

Two of what Henry had come to understand was  _ the good stuff _ was dropped into his open hand. 

“You have a few choices when it comes to sleeping arrangements,” Papa said, pouring him a glass of water. “You would likely fit on the loveseat—where Cephy is  _ not allowed,  _ Will.” His voice barely raised at all at the end of his sentence, but both Cephy and Dad jumped, the former thumping onto the floor in a hurry. As if nothing had happened, Papa continued, “But the sofa also folds out into what I’ve been told is a comfortable bed, which I believe would be better for your injury. Alternatively, you could share the bed in the other room with Luca. Abi will take whichever option you don’t choose.” 

“I don’t mind sharing with Luca. He’d probably come bother me no matter where I sleep anyway.” That was probably not true, Henry knew. If he had Abigail, there’d be no reason for Luca to seek Henry out. Still, the claim made Papa smirk. 

“Perhaps. Come, let’s get your dressing changed and get you into bed. We could all use a good night’s rest.” 

Abigail, it turned out, had commandeered the suite’s shower first. As everyone was tired, the rest of them were going to take turns in the morning, which suited Henry just fine. At this point, he probably would have fallen asleep in the tub and drowned himself anyway.

Because Papa didn’t want to risk waking Luca—or worse, Luca accidentally seeing Henry’s raw wound himself—Henry mostly changed in the living room, the curtains on the large window drawn closed. It was only as the new bandage was about to be applied to his shoulder that Henry remembered his urge from the other day, to see what it looked like. 

“He doesn’t need to see that,” Dad grumbled as soon as Henry voiced his idea. 

“No,” Papa agreed, kneeling in front of where Henry sat on the loveseat’s armrest. “But he wants to.”

“It looks like a stitched-up hole. There’s nothing to see.”

“I know what it’ll look like,” Henry said to his Dad. “I know what the scar will look like too. I’ve seen yours. I’d still like to see it for myself, though.” 

Dad paused where he’d begun to aggressively fluff a pillow, mostly by punching it. He looked to Papa and, seeing no ally there, threw his hands up. “Fine. I’m just—I’m going to check on the baby.” 

Henry watched as his father marched out of the room, as the door to the master bedroom nearly slammed closed only to stop at the last second and shut with a soft click. 

“Don’t mind him,” Papa said with a wave of his hand. He rose to search through some of their bags. “It’s not easy for any parent to see their child in pain. But for an alpha, their innate drive to protect their young is so strong, it must cause a terrible amount of guilt to be confronted with their failure to do so. Of course, Will would likely be displeased with such an assessment.”

“Of course,” Henry agreed. He didn’t need to be told about how much guilt his Dad carried around. He bit down the shame at having piled on even more. 

Papa finally found a mirror in one of Abigail’s bags, a small, round compact. He returned to the side of the loveseat and held it level with Henry’s wounded shoulder. “Ready?” 

He opened it on Henry’s nod.

At first, Henry couldn’t actually see anything and had to reach out with his left hand to tip the mirror down until his shoulder was properly in view. 

He supposed his Dad was right—there really wasn’t much to see. For some reason, he was expecting the skin around the injury itself to be bruised up like the rest of him was, but it wasn’t. His skin was neatly stitched closed, the area around slightly reddened and puffy. He imagined it would probably start to itch soon enough, as the skin fused back together and scabbed over. That was going to be unpleasant. 

Henry clicked the compact closed with a defeated sigh. 

“Not what you were envisioning?” Papa asked with a small, upward twitch of his mouth. He didn’t wait for an answer before placing the mirror down and applying the fresh set of dressing onto the wound. “Something more gruesome, perhaps? An outward reflection in the flesh of the trauma you endured?” 

“Something like that,” Henry said. “It was pretty bad inside, right?” 

“Awful,” Papa said, his voice dry and solemn. “I feared the whole arm was a forgone casualty.” 

Henry couldn’t help it, he laughed. Papa paused in his application of gauze to gently swat at Henry’s dangling leg. 

“Dreadful child, laughing at your father’s unspeakable terror.”

Henry laughed harder at the incredibly stern expression on his Papa’s face and only started to quiet when Papa gestured toward the two closed bedroom doors and shushed him. His father was grinning now too, abandoning the act, and waited for Henry’s silent shaking to stop before resuming his work. 

When he was finished, he helped Henry into his sleep shirt and back into his sling. Dad poked his head out of the master bedroom, eyes narrowed. “Were you two  _ laughing _ out here?” 

Both Henry and Papa shook their heads  _ no.  _ “Certainly not,” Papa said, placing a hand on his back to urge Henry into standing. 

“Uh huh.” Dad stared at them, unconvinced, but shrugged it off and roped Henry into a gentle goodnight hug and kiss. “Let us know if Luca has trouble sleeping again, alright? You don’t have to deal with it by yourself.” 

“I know. I will,” Henry promised, having no intention of doing so. Since he was standing directly under a light, Henry couldn’t help but notice that the bags under his Dad’s eyes were still there. Not quite as bad as they a few days ago, but terrible to see all the same. Papa too, from where he was leaning against the loveseat, looked exhausted. 

He’d let them sleep, even if Luca’s nightmares kept him up the entire night. Plus, they had a long trip ahead of them tomorrow, didn’t they? He could always sleep in the car. 

Henry exchanged goodnights and I-love-yous with his fathers, made them promise to give the same to Abigail whenever it was she emerged from the shower, and left to crawl into bed. 

Of course, his brother was directly in the center, deeply asleep and dead to the world. Thankfully it was a much larger bed than the one they’d shared on the boat, and Henry had plenty of room to carefully lay on his left side, which was far more comfortable without the oxygen tank—a reprieve he was granted for the handful of days they were in Spain. 

He was still awake when he heard the water from the bathroom switch off. There was a quiet rumble of conversation beyond the door, along with an excited yap or two from Cephy, who was being crated for the night. For all Henry knew, she’d been sleeping in her crate on the boat, too. He’d never ventured into his parents’ stateroom to see if it had been in there. It would certainly have explained why she didn’t follow Luca back to his and Henry’s room. 

The house grew quiet. Sleep evaded Henry for so long, his eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness, and he could finally make out Luca clearly. He… was not sleeping as peacefully as Henry had assumed. Luca was facing away from him, curled in on himself like he was trying to become as small as possible, and now that Henry was listening for it, his breathing was much too fast, punctuated by soft little whimpers. Henry scooted closer, away from the edge of the bed where he’d been teetering, and reached out to rest a hand on Luca’s back. He rubbed in small, soothing circles like he’d seen Abigail and Papa do before, and was relieved to see his brother slowly relax. It was an awkward position since he was essentially laying on his elbow. He could feel his arm gradually going numb. But whenever he removed his hand, Luca tensed up immediately. 

Henry sighed, adjusted so that he was at least laying on his back again and could retain the feeling in his arm. He  _ knew  _ he was going to wake to Luca using him as a warm, breathing pillow. He just hoped Luca didn’t seek out his shoulder this time. Maybe he’d get lucky and his brother would be drawn to his bruised ribs instead.

He must have fallen asleep like that, still rubbing Luca’s back, because when next Henry was aware of his surroundings, light was bleeding through the curtain in their room. And Luca was draped over his stomach. 

Small blessings.

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got sick riiiight as I was editing this for posting; sorry if I missed any errors.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [mariana-wench](https://mariana-wench.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It almost feels like a vacation. Almost.

The morning passed with a surprising sense of normalcy. Papa prepared an exorbitant breakfast considering his limited kitchen, and Henry, Luca, and Dad took the animals for a walk on the beach. It was fortunate that Abigail suggested throwing together a makeshift harness for Paris at the last minute because they were barely outside for five minutes before she tried to make a break for the ocean. The freezing cold water dissuaded her from trying again, much to Luca’s relief. 

As nice as it would’ve been to stay at the little beach house for a few days, Dad and Papa had everyone packed into the minivan by noon. Henry was assigned to the back row this time, with Abigail in the middle, and Papa up front. Cephy was in the back with him, though, so he didn’t mind. 

It wasn’t long for Dad’s words from the other day to come back and haunt him. Now that he was  _ awake _ for the drive, Luca demanded near constant updates on their progress. After the first hour, there was a synchronous groan throughout the van whenever Luca spoke. After the second hour, Henry wondered how much trouble he’d get in for taping his brother’s mouth shut. None, probably. Maybe he’d even be awarded a medal. 

A little over a third of the way to their destination, Dad pulled off the main highway and stopped at a small park. It wasn’t as cold here as it would’ve been at home, despite how late in the year it was, and Henry relished being able to stretch his legs and breath in the cool air. To the surprise of no one, Papa had prepared and brought along a lunch rather than let them stop somewhere for food. The entire family was forced to sit at a slightly-too-small picnic table—Henry had repeatedly insisted he could sit on the grass to no avail. 

To make room for everyone, Dad sat on Papa’s lap, something neither of them had the decency to find embarrassing. Henry exchanged equally mortified looks with Abigail, who sat across from him and laughed at his mock gagging when they caught their parents sappily feeding each other bites of food. 

Now that he’d been fed, Luca was much more inclined to nap than pester the rest of them with incessant questions. In fact, everyone except Dad drifted in and out of naps for the rest of the drive, even Papa. Henry had for sure slept through a few of their stops. His last dose of medications made the world too bleary to endure, so he laid down in the back seat, curled around Cephy who stretched out next to him. He fell asleep early in the evening listening to Papa as he coaxed Luca into counting to twenty in as many languages as he could. 

When next Henry awoke, they were parked. Most of the van was empty, save him, Cephy, and his Dad, who had been watching him over the headrests of the middle row. He startled upon noticing Henry’s eyes were open. 

As Henry slowly sat up, Cephy, excited that  _ both _ humans were now doing something, hopped off the back seat and onto the floorboard. She wiggled and danced back and forth for a moment before getting too eager for Henry and jumping back up onto the seat, headbutting Henry in the gut in the process. 

She missed Henry’s bruised ribs and side, for the most part, and Henry was grateful Dad at least had the kindness not to laugh too blatantly as he handed Henry the dog’s leash. 

“You haven’t missed anything,” Dad said as they all climbed out. “Everyone left just a few minutes ago to head up to the suite. When Abi tried to wake you up, Cephy kind of growled at her, so…”

While Henry would like to attribute that behavior to some sort of protectiveness born of affection on Cephy’s part, it was more likely that she just didn’t want to lose Henry’s sleepy warmth yet. 

He carefully wrapped the leash around his good hand and looked up at the building where they’d be staying for the next few days. It wasn’t the most extravagant hotel he’d ever been to—that was probably the place in Florence where they’d celebrated Abi graduating with her Bachelor’s—but nor was it was the worst. Dad’s paranoia after their flight from France had led them to all sorts of dire, run-down places as they moved around. He couldn’t remember for himself what made them so terrible anymore, but he’d heard their descriptions enough times from Papa to imagine. This certainly wasn’t anything like those, with its exterior clean and shiny in the dim moonlight. If Henry had to guess, he’d say this was probably the nicest, most highly reviewed—and expensive—hotel within a reasonable distance to the marina that still accepted pets. 

He couldn’t see into any of the windows except for the large ones showing off the gleaming, near golden lobby. 

The high-pitched beep of the car doors locking startled Henry, and he looked up to see his Dad jerk a thumb toward the large entrance. Henry wasn’t sure if it was from all the driving or something else, but his father looked strained. He couldn’t help but briefly glance at the bandage on Dad’s cheek, wondering if he’d been taking anything for the pain. He’d yet to see what the cut underneath looked like, but he hoped it wasn’t too deep. 

Something told him he  _ wouldn’t _ be seeing it. Maybe not even until the scar tissue had begun to be covered in new beard growth. 

“Remember,” Dad said, throwing an arm around Henry’s neck, rather than resting it along his shoulder, “Anyone asks, we were in a small car accident.” 

“We?”

“You, me, and Papa. We’re going to be here for a while, can’t really hide how banged up we are. Tail end of our car got hit on the driver’s side. You were sitting behind me and got the worst of it,” Dad explained. 

He steered Henry inside the hotel and waved, almost friendly, to the exhausted looking night clerk, whose reciprocal wave paused briefly once she got a good look at Henry’s well-tenderized face. Her hand drooped, ever so slightly as she pouted sympathetically. Henry forced his face to stay pleasant, projected  _ I’m fine _ as strongly as he could as he raised the hand holding Cephy’s leash to wiggle his fingers at her in hello. The smile he plastered on was probably a little too large to look natural. 

Dad dropped a hand on top of Henry’s head, manually turning it to face the elevator they were waiting for. Probably not a good idea to weird the staff out five minutes in. 

Cephy paced in front of the elevator doors, long tail whipping at both their legs. 

The elevator dinged, and Dad steered Henry inside. “How long until Chiyoh gets here?” Henry asked.

Dad shrugged and pushed the button for the top floor. “Can’t say for sure. We have the reservation for three days, but we can always extend it. She has even further to go than we did, and it’s just her out there. And we have no idea if she’s going to encounter…” 

“Jack?” 

“Obstacles,” Dad corrected, brows furrowing. He sighed and leaned against the mirrored wall behind them. “His people, maybe, but not him. It’ll be a while before Jack’s out of the hospital.” 

Henry thought about the fact that both of his hands are going to be in casts, how his usage of them will never be the same, and couldn’t help but smile a little. While he shouldn’t be glad for it, knowing that the agent would  _ never _ forget Henry, would have no choice but to remember him every day of his life, filled Henry with a dark sense of satisfaction. 

Of course, Henry had enough presence of mind to know that kind of thinking would lead him to trouble someday, if he indulged in it. Agent Crawford being alive was going to cause him and his family no small amount of grief and irritation in the years to come. 

The elevator opened, and Cephy pulled Henry out into the hall, his father following behind. Dad was grumbling under his breath while unlocking the door about how they should have walked the dog before coming up. 

Henry handed off the leash once the door unlocked, making Dad shake his head with a scoff before he turned right back around, leaving Henry alone in the suite’s small foyer. When the door clicked shut behind him, Papa called out from somewhere deeper within, “Will?” 

“Just me,” Henry called back. He found Papa relaxed in an armchair, cradling a tired Anna. She was rubbing furiously at her eyes, obviously fighting off sleep, not that she had much chance winning that battle. 

Henry plopped down on the loveseat across from Papa and, at his questioning look, said, “He’s taking Cephy for one last walk.” He looked at a clock on the wall. It was just after ten. “I slept too much on the drive here,” he sighed. 

“We have nowhere to be tomorrow,” Papa assured. “If you sleep half the morning away, that’s fine.” 

“You just want me to  _ rest _ some more,” Henry accused. 

Papa just shrugged, shifting Anna to rest her head on his shoulder, close to his neck. “Your fatigue is the result of your body recovering and healing from trauma. I won’t deny wanting you to rest as much as your body demands.” 

Henry had heard some form of that same sentiment fifty times, so he said nothing, not wanting to argue or even disagree. In the end, he knew his family’s badgering was for his own good, and as much as he disliked feeling weak and fragile, he’d hate it even more if he was permanently impaired because of his injury. His right hand was starting to feel more responsive already, so he took it as a small victory that he could use it to fiddle with the fabric of his sling. 

“Luca and Abigail are in bed,” Papa said after a moment. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to keep the same arrangements as yesterday, but I believe we could have a cot sent up.” 

Henry shook his head. “No, it’s fine.”

Folding his legs up on the chair, Henry let his body slump a little to the left as he looked out of one of the far windows. The curtain was mostly drawn, but Henry could tell there was no balcony for stargazing. There’d be no point in going outside, anyway. There was too much light pollution, and these rooms didn’t even face the ocean. 

He wondered if Chiyoh was sleeping, whose room she’d choose. Maybe she’d just rest upstairs at the helm—that captain’s chair had looked comfortable enough to Henry. 

“Do we have a way of talking to Chiyoh?” he asked. 

Papa tilted his head in curiosity, or perhaps he was just moving to nuzzle the top of Anna’s head. “We do,” he answered quietly. Either his sister was finally asleep or she was nearly there. “She has a satellite phone. I don’t believe she would appreciate being disturbed for idle chatter, however.” 

Henry wanted to say that Papa didn’t  _ know _ that. Maybe she was lonely, maybe she was bored. Henry couldn’t imagine how dull and tiring it must be all by herself on the boat. Instead of any of that, he said, “Not for that. I was just—I was wondering how we’d know she made it. Or if something went wrong.” 

“We’d know.”

“What if she gets arrested and can’t call us, though?” 

Papa rose from his chair to come kneel next to Henry. Anna was still held gently to his body with one hand—his sister was definitely asleep, her breathing deep and even—and raised the other to card through Henry’s hair. It’d been neatly combed that morning, but the combination of odd sleeping positions and wind mussing it up had reduced it to an unruly, tangled mess. 

“There’s no crime that can be connected to her. We’ve been very careful,” Papa told him in a soft voice. “And if things don’t go according to plan, she’s perfectly capable of seeing to her own safety.”

“I know that,” Henry grumbled. He knew no such thing, of course. He didn’t know anything about the woman other than she regularly went out of her way help Papa and their family.

“You don’t need to worry about these details, Henry,” his father said, something else Henry had heard before. He wasn’t sure he could agree.

Rather than argue, because he was also aware that needed to be on his  _ best behavior _ for foreseeable future, he just nodded and even summoned a small, understanding smile. It must have looked convincing enough, because Papa’s eyes softened in that way they do when he’s pleased, and he leaned forward to press a featherlight kiss to Henry’s forehead.

After that, Papa disappeared into one of the rooms to put Anna to bed. Henry rightly assumed that meant the other closed door he could see led to the room he’d be sharing with Luca and Abigail. Even though he didn’t feel anywhere near ready for sleep, Henry climbed out of his chair and slunk over to the second room. He was glad to find it wasn’t completely shut, and he was able to push it open a little with just his fingertips. He could hear Abigail’s light snoring now, and as more of the room became visible, he could see she had claimed the bed closest to the door.

In the other one was Luca, sitting up and hugging his knees to his chest. His head popped up as light leaked from the open door, revealing Henry standing in the crack. It was too far, too dark for Henry to see his brother’s expression, but he didn’t think it would be anything good. He held out his hand, beckoning Luca to come to him. 

In a flash, Luca scrambled out of bed and rushed over to Henry, attaching himself to Henry’s legs like a desperate koala. 

“Luca, c’mon. We gotta move, Abi is sleeping.” Henry pulled at Luca’s surprisingly strong grip with his good hand and hoped his whispering wouldn’t wake their sister. Eventually Luca let go, only to grab onto Henry’s arm instead. Whatever, at least they could walk now. 

Henry led Luca away from the door after closing it and over to one of the couches by the window. Papa had yet to emerge from the other room, but Henry was sure he would soon. 

The clinginess didn’t go away once they were both settled on the cushions, as then Luca climbed directly onto Henry’s lap to completely wrap himself around Henry’s torso. 

“You okay?” Henry asked after a few minutes. Luca shook his head  _ no,  _ his forehead pressed against Henry’s unbroken collarbone. 

Henry didn’t understand what was going on with his brother. During the day he was  _ fine,  _ yet his evenings were plagued by constant nightmares. And they were getting worse. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Henry adjusted on the couch in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure on his battered ribs. They didn’t hurt nearly as bad as his shoulder did, but this was definitely uncomfortable. Thankfully, Luca got the hint and allowed himself to be maneuvered into a position that wasn’t painful. 

When Luca didn’t answer, Henry awkwardly ran his hand through his brother’s hair, the way Papa would. It felt more like he was just petting Luca than providing any kind of comfort, but it somehow worked. Luca eventually sighed and muttered a quiet, “Can’t sleep.” 

“Yeah, I’m not tired either. We both probably took too many naps on the ride here,” Henry casually said, knowing Luca could never abide Henry being  _ wrong _ about something. 

“I  _ am  _ tired,” he insisted. 

“Then go to sleep?”

_ “I can’t!”  _

There was no way Papa hadn’t heard that.  _ Cephy _ probably heard it several floors below them. Henry wrapped his good arm around Luca, pulling him closer and resting his chin atop his brother’s head. Upsetting Luca further was not actually his goal. “Okay,” he said in a soft voice, “why can’t you sleep?” 

Henry’s eyes shot up when the other bedroom door opened. Papa walked a few steps, looking around the suite until his concerned gaze landed on the two of them huddled on the couch. Henry tried to communicate as clearly as he could with just his face that he was  _ handling this.  _ Although dubious, Papa said nothing, just moved back to lean against the door frame, watching. 

Relieved he was being left to it for now, Henry kept petting down Luca’s back. “You can tell me,” Henry urged, using as gentle a voice as he could. Not easy with the broken nose.

He stared at his father as he spoke, as if he could pin him in place with the power of his mind. 

“I was alone,” Luca whispered, sounding wretched and on the verge of tears. 

Henry squeezed tighter. “Abigail was in the room with you.” Luca shook his head, which immensely confused Henry. “Yes, she was. I can hear her snoring even now.” 

“No,” Luca said. “Not  _ now.”  _

“When, Lucky?” Henry asked, feeling his brother tremble against him. He saw Papa’s hands clench at his sides. They both knew what Luca was going to say. 

“In the woods.” The last word ended on a drawn-out whine, almost unintelligible. Henry closed his eyes briefly, holding back a curse because he’d known. Right there at the lake, he’d  _ known.  _

Papa had taken a step closer when Henry opened his eyes. He took his hand off Luca for only a second, holding it out to his father to wait. Papa didn’t look  _ happy _ about the request, but he complied, not taking another step. Now the both of them were shaking, but Henry could only comfort one family member at a time. 

He rubbed his hand down Luca’s back, not even so much as groaning in complaint when Luca squeezed his middle tighter. “You were so brave to run when you did. It was really dark and cold in the woods that night, wasn’t it?” 

“So dark,” Luca whimpered, hiding his face in Henry’s neck, on the bad side. 

Henry breathed through the discomfort and focused. “But you still ran when you had to. And you left behind your light-up shoes! That was smart, Lucky. Did I tell you that?”

Luca shook his head. “No,” he said between sniffles, although Henry could have sworn he  _ had _ . It didn’t matter. When had Luca started to cry? 

“It was  _ so clever,”  _ Henry emphatically whispered against the top of Luca’s head. He pulled back a little to look his brother in the face. Luca’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, making his big eyes shine like bottomless tide pools. “And,” Henry said after he took a steadying breath, “you also saved my life.” 

Like he was hoping, Luca was suddenly more confused than upset. His face kept trying to rearrange itself into sorrow, but then he’d pour over Henry’s statement again, and his pale brows would draw tightly together, eyes narrowed on Henry. 

“What?” he asked, sharp and quick. Suspiciously quack like.

Henry had to brutally bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Luca spent far too much time with his precious Duchess. He gave a shaky exhale and returned his hand to pet down Luca’s soft hair. “You heard me,” he said, mirth under control. “You saved my life.” 

Luca had yet to notice Papa lurking on the outskirts of their conversation. Henry only spared a quick glance at their father to make sure he wasn’t coming any closer before Luca demanded his attention again. His brother had sat back, no longer attached to him like velcro, mouth twisted up in annoyance. “No I didn’t,” he said. 

“But you did,” Henry replied, voice even and completely earnest. While he had the opportunity, he indulged in several deep, pain-free breaths. 

“How?”

“My nose broke, remember?” Henry pointed at the mangled feature in question, careful not to touch it. 

Luca had no such care, of course. He reached out before Henry could stop him, his finger bopping him lightly on the smashed bridge of Henry’s nose. The sudden flare of pain wasn’t quite as bad as Henry remembered, but he hissed through his teeth anyway, rearing his head back from curious little fingers. 

“Sorry,” Luca mumbled. “I remember.”

_ Sure,  _ Henry thought,  _ now you do.  _ “S’fine,” Henry groaned, waiting for his face to return to its usual equilibrium of ache. After a few seconds, with everything more or less back in order, he sighed and laid his hand on Luca’s shoulder, giving a reassuring smile. “It’s fine,” he said again, and Luca seemed to relax. “Anyway, when I found you, my nose was busted. I couldn’t smell anything—I  _ still _ can’t. If it hadn’t been for you, telling me where to go, I would have run into those bad men completely unaware, right?” 

Luca shrugged. 

“I would have,” Henry insisted. “I had no idea they were there. Because of you, I was prepared. But then what happened? I was too slow to take one of them down.” Henry gently squeezed Luca’s shoulder and tried to be as non-alarming as he could about what he was going to say next. “He was going to shoot me, that man in the woods. If you hadn’t been there, if you and Paris hadn’t distracted him for that second I needed, I would have died, Lucky.” Luca’s eyes widened impossible more, and Henry was quick to smile, even though it hurt his already pained face, and cupped Luca’s cheek in his hand. “But I didn’t. Because you were there. Because you were smart enough to run at just the right time.”

“But you did get shot,” Luca reminded him, eying Henry’s bandaged shoulder. 

“I did, but that was after. I’m talking about the guy who broke my knife. And I only got shot because I fired first, so that’s on me.”

“That was dumb,” Luca said with a small giggle. Some of the tears from his eyes had fallen, although he seemed much calmer. Henry wiped them away with his thumb. 

“You’re not supposed to call me dumb,” Henry said chidingly, making Luca laugh more. Once the laughter had died down, Henry felt confident enough to ask, “How do you feel? Think you could sleep now?” 

“Maybe.”

“Let’s go see, huh? I’ll lay down too. I could use another nap. Clearly I haven’t had enough.”

His brother nodded and awkwardly climbed off of Henry and the couch. As Luca turned around, their father quickly spun to busy himself with what looked like the makings of a cup of tea in the suite’s kitchenette.

“Papa?”

“Oh hello, darling,” Papa said, a pleasant, surprised lilt to his voice, like he just realized they were there. Placing his cup down, he walked over and hoisted Luca up, subtly directing him to lean against his shoulder and bury his face in his neck. “Did you have trouble sleeping? You could have told me.” 

“A little,” Luca answered with a sigh. In Papa’s arms, he was quickly becoming lethargic, his eyes barely open. 

He didn’t even flinch when the door to the suite suddenly opened, Cephy bounding in like a tempest, barking once before being reprimanded by Dad as he shuffled in after her. She quieted but still ran around the three of them, excited and sniffing up at Luca’s foot. 

Something on one of their faces must have been telling, because Dad paused mid-step. “Everyone okay?” 

“Fine, Will,” Papa said, carefully stepping around the dog. “The boys were just about to go to bed.” 

Dad’s eyes whipped to Henry, like he expected this claim to be disputed, but Henry just nodded. “Okay then,” he said slowly. He looked at Luca for a few long seconds, seemed to debate whether to bring up that, as far as he was aware, Luca had already  _ been _ in bed, but ultimately decided against it. 

Luca was transferred over to Dad to handle while Henry was stopped by the collar of his shirt and pointed toward the bathroom first to brush his teeth. 

To his confusion, Papa followed him, hovering in the open doorway as Henry found his new toothbrush among the neatly unpacked stockpile of toiletries. He eyed his father in the mirror, wondering if this was just going to be one of those  _ things _ he does, or if Papa actually had something to say. 

The urge to sigh dramatically or demand something like  _ what?  _ or _ can I help you?  _ was strong, but Henry steeled himself not to say a word.  _ Best behavior,  _ he thought.  _ Best behavior, best behavior, best behavior.  _

Instead, he tried to politely ask what it was Papa wanted via eyebrow, raising them higher and higher the longer nothing was said. If Papa waited until Henry actually had a mouth full of toothpaste, he was going to be  _ so annoyed.  _

Henry stared down at the toothbrush in his hand, suddenly—irrationally—irritated that it was the blue one from the boat. The one at home had been silver. Rather than let  _ that _ feeling fester, Henry awkwardly blurted, “What’s up?” 

“I was curious,” Papa started to say with a casual little shrug before trailing off. 

Henry knew this game when Papa didn’t elaborate on the nature of his curiosity. With a sigh he couldn’t hold back this time, he lowered the toothbrush to the counter and turned so that they weren’t talking to each other in the mirror. “About?” 

“Why you wanted to comfort Luca on your own. Aside from the last two nights, your father and I have been handling him.” 

_ And now I am.  _ Henry chewed the inside of his cheek, biting back the words. “I know. But I can take care of him,” he said, which wasn’t a whole lot better, now that he thought about it. Too much emphasis on  _ I.  _

“That’s not your job, Henry.” And before Henry could point out that it  _ was  _ his job, by Papa’s own words in the past, he continued, “Not while we’re here. I appreciate you feel a sense of responsibility for him, and the fact you’re eager to look after him fills me with an incredible sense of pride.” Papa took a step closer, eyes searching Henry’s face for something. “But we’re safe now, Henry. You needn’t be on guard anymore. You can relax.” 

Henry’s fingers tightened around the handle of his brush, his knuckles turning white as he pressed them harshly into the countertop. He  _ was _ relaxed. Ever since getting shot, he’d done nothing but relax, rest, and nap! What more does he need to do, fall into another coma? Will he be  _ relaxed _ then? 

And they were not safe! Henry gritted his teeth, holding the urge to scream. How could his father stand there and say they weren’t in any danger? How long until his fathers’ pictures were on the news all across the continent? Surely they were already wanted men throughout Italy. Even with his throat slit and hands mangled, Henry knew that Agent Crawford must have relayed all the important, damaging information he’d learned from the time he’d spent with their family. He’d find a way. 

Because Henry had let all  _ sorts _ of conversations transpire in front of the man. He knew about the boat. He knew Henry was a killer. He now knew Papa’s true dynamic, when the fact that the authorities had been hunting for a pair of  _ alphas  _ had helped keep the family undiscovered for a decade. 

But they’re  _ safe?  _ Only a few hundred miles away from the smoking, blood-soaked ruins of Henry’s childhood home, they were supposedly safe?

“You don’t agree,” Papa remarked, having watched the entire, raging tirade play out on Henry’s face. 

_ No shit.  _ Henry swallowed heavily before answering. “I don’t.”

“What could I say to reassure you?” 

Henry blinked. His words came slow and hesitant, like he was dragging them up from quicksand. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”

Papa’s lips pinched together in displeasure. Without warning, he stepped forward, grabbing Henry around the waist and hoisting him onto the bathroom counter, careful not to sit him on his own toothbrush. Henry definitely did  _ not _ yelp in alarm at the sudden movement. His feet dangled at least half a foot off the floor, and he tried not to nervously kick the cabinets with his heels. 

When Henry looked up, his father still seemed unhappy, but Henry wasn’t about to apologize for his doubt  _ or _ not knowing the magic words to alleviate it, either. 

While he wasn’t surprised when Papa carefully took Henry’s face in his hands, he was sure it was only because of those very hands holding him in place that Henry didn’t startle and jerk back, cracking his head on the mirror, when his father finally spoke. 

“We are not safe.”

Henry’s brows furrowed.  _ Was this reverse psychology? _

“This morning before everyone else woke up was the first chance Will and I had to check the news. Our hope was that the FBI would want to keep such a botched capture attempt quiet, at least for now, but that does not appear to be the case. Our faces were on near every channel.” 

“Whose… whose faces?” Henry asked, heart picking up pace. 

“Just mine and Dad’s,” Papa said. 

“What about the lobby we went through? What if the clerk recognized you?” 

“Most people do not overly familiarize themselves with the photos of wanted criminals. They will have an image in their mind of what we would look like, how we would behave, and it will not match that of two tired, vacationing parents. We’ve done this before, Henry. While we’re currently at risk, we’ll get through this.” 

Henry nodded and wiped his sweaty palm on his pant leg. That made sense. This will have been the third time his fathers have been on the run. They know what they were doing. He couldn’t help worrying though. “You guys should stay up here. The less you’re seen, the better. If we need something, Abi should go.” 

“Reasonable,” Papa simply said with a slight smile. His hands dropped, and Henry remained seated on the counter, trying not to fidget. “What do you think now?” 

“I think I want to knew what the news said,” Henry answered. When Papa stepped back to give him room, he hopped down to finish with brushing his teeth. He looked up at his father’s reflection and asked around the handle in his mouth, careful not to projectile spit any toothpaste, “Do you think we could look up some of the news clips? Or maybe find some translated articles. This place should probably have wifi, right?” 

“Of course,” Papa said, his face doing interesting things as he watched Henry. He patted Henry on his good shoulder as he went to leave the bathroom. “I will look. Slow down and do that properly.”

Henry did slow down, because he knew if his father wasn’t satisfied, he’d just be sent back in here to do it again. 

By the time he was done, Papa was seated at the small table in the kitchenette, scrolling through a webpage on a laptop while he sipped his tea. 

Dad laid on one of the nearby loveseats, Cephy on top of him with her snout pointed under his chin. If it wasn’t for the fact he was lazily petting a hand down her back, Henry would have thought they were both asleep. 

Henry dragged one of the dining chairs around so that he could have a better view of the screen and plopped down. The site was in English, which probably shouldn’t have surprised Henry all that much. They’d always learned the local language—well, he, Abi, and Dad did, since Papa knew them already—but most everything was accessible to English speakers in all the places in Europe Henry had been to or lived. 

Papa stopped scrolling and clicked on an article before Henry had a chance to see its title. He didn’t have to wonder what it was for long. The first thing that loaded on the page were his fathers’ wanted posters, blown up to fill almost the entire screen. Henry leaned closer to read the small text underneath, but Papa helpfully pushed the laptop to sit directly in front of Henry. He resumed drinking his tea. 

The pictures were distracting, so Henry scrolled past them.

_ “MANHUNT FOR CANNIBAL DUO CONTINUES,”  _ the bold headline read. “Search for the alleged alpha serial killers Hannibal Lecter (52) and Will Graham (45) resumes after a four-year lull in international investigation.” 

The first paragraph covered the  _ shocking _ disappearances of Henry’s parents nearly eleven years ago at the height of the search for the Chesapeake Ripper. 

Next was about the lucky break that led the investigation to France, where a murder victim’s extensive security system managed to catch his killers on camera—the first time they’d been spotted in six years. By the time they found where the pair were living, their villa had been emptied and abandoned, not a shred of evidence left behind. 

Henry dragged the computer to the very edge of the able, finally getting to the section that had his interest. 

“While little has been confirmed by either Italian or American authorities, credible witnesses have come forward with reports of having seen both Lecter and Graham in and around Florence and the surrounding countryside. Several anonymous sources claim to have been involved in a raid of an estate where they say the pair have been living. They also say that the wildfire that began last Friday was started as part of the fugitives’ escape from authorities, during which many Italian and American police forces lost their lives. It’s unclear whether Lecter and Graham are allegedly responsible for these deaths or the fire. Sources have also claimed that the men could be traveling with several young children. Their identities are unknown, as is whether these children are being held as hostages. 

“At this time, lead investigator and head of the American Bureau of Behavior Sciences, Special Agent Jack Crawford, was unavailable for comment. A press conference concerning further developments is scheduled for Friday Morning. 

Lecter and Graham are thought to have crossed the Italian border and are in hiding somewhere in Europe. Authorities have issued statements encouraging the public not to seek out or interact with either alpha if they are seen and to leave the area immediately. Contact the local police only once you are somewhere safe, as both men are presumed to be armed and dangerous.” 

Henry’s brows furrowed as he scrolled up and down the article. The rest of the piece was devoted to speculation about various murders and missing people throughout Italy over the last few years, trying to guess which had been his family’s doing. As he’d never paid attention to any of the names gracing their table, he had no idea how accurate the morbid guesswork really was, although accuracy was perhaps not the point. Back at the top of the webpage, Henry paused on a curious bit of wording. 

He sat back, confused. “They’re still claiming you’re both alphas.” 

“Really?” Dad sat up from the loveseat, blinking at them over the back of it. “That’s odd.” 

Papa rotated the laptop to face him again and read through the news piece faster than Henry had. 

“Wouldn’t someone had said something?” Henry drummed his fingers on the table, waiting for Papa to finish. “They had to have figured it out by now. And there was no mention of Abi. I don’t think  _ everyone _ who saw either of you died, did they?” 

“I’m not sure,” Papa said slowly. He looked up from the laptop to Dad, who’d abandoned Cephy on the loveseat and joined them at the table. He leaned over Papa’s shoulder to read from the screen, squinting. Henry wondered where his glasses had gone off to this time—it was fortunate they had a few spares on the boat. 

“I led off three,” Dad said, resting against the back of Papa’s chair and draping his arms around him. “Henry got one. Then there was the one who…” He gestured to Henry’s shoulder, jaw tense just thinking about what had happened. “How many were left?”

Papa reached up and ran a hand along the forearm wrapped around his chest. “Assuming the shooter was part of the original group in the clearing, just the two that Abi and I took care of.” 

_ “Assuming?”  _

“I don’t know for certain that he was.” 

Dad sighed, his head falling forward. “So, aside from Jack, it’s  _ possible _ there’s someone else out there that knows about Abigail and the truth about you? Shit, I just remembered-” His head popped up, a scowl firmly fixed on his face- “The three that dragged me off. I don’t think anyone got them. They definitely know about Abigail.” 

“Maybe it’s one of those things where they hold back information? ‘Cause then they know the tips are real?” Henry offered. 

“Maybe,” Dad echoed. “If so, that still helps us for now. They’re not looking for a family yet. They’re looking for a pair of shifty alphas dragging along terrified children.” 

Papa’s eyes narrowed at  _ shifty _ being used to theoretically describe him. 

“How long until Agent Crawford is well enough to make a statement?” Henry asked, mostly to Papa. 

Dad laughed under his breath, answering first. “I’d hoped we’d have until Prurnell authorized a seance, but…”

“I was distracted.” Papa huffed and closed the laptop lid with a quiet thud. 

“I know.” Dad kissed his husband on the cheek, smoothing out the small frown that had started to form. “Wasn’t blaming you. We both thought it was a done deal.” 

“Yes, well…” Papa cleared his throat and turned to Henry. “Without knowing if it was the depth or placement of the cut that allowed Jack to survive, it’s impossible to say for certain, but it’s highly likely there was damage to the larynx. Worst case scenario, he’s able to speak with some difficulty and pain within a month. A month and a half, perhaps more, for his hands to regain minimal functionality. But he’s a determined man. He’ll have his thoughts heard one way or another soon enough.” 

“Probably,” Dad agreed. “I can’t see him waiting for everything to be healed up. He’ll just have someone stick a pen in his mouth.” 

Papa smiled a little as he took another sip of his tea. “That would not surprise me in the slightest. So, Henry?” 

At hearing his name, Henry startled slightly. He’d expected his fathers to keep the topic going on their own. “Yes?” 

“Are you satisfied? You’ve read the article.” 

“Oh.” Henry shifted on his seat, glancing briefly at the laptop. He supposed he felt… better? His fathers’ pictures being in the news wasn’t  _ good,  _ but it could have been much worse. Abigail being kept out of it gave them a lot more freedom to move around than they otherwise would have had. They certainly weren’t in the clear, not yet, but it was better to know what their limitations were than to be left in the dark. There was no way of knowing if Crawford was going to go public with the new information about their family, but it was safer to just assume he would eventually. If for no other reason than they’d be more likely to be positively identified as an alpha and omega couple with children than two violent fugitives with young hostages. 

Having a more accurate picture of their situation helped ease some of the anxiety that had been building, loosening something in Henry’s chest. He could breathe easier, and he no longer felt like he was trying to play chess blindfolded. All the pieces were visible now, and while they might have been in check, now that he  _ knew,  _ it was only a temporary setback. They’d get out of this. Everything will be fine. 

“Yeah, I think so,” Henry answered. “I’m okay.”

“Were you not okay?” Dad asked, brows pinched in confusion. He turned to Papa, when Henry said nothing. “He wasn’t okay?” 

“Your son has a propensity to worry too much when he feels he’s not fully informed.” Papa rose from the table to wash his cup out in the sink. “That was all.” 

Dad watched him go then swiveled his head to glance at Henry. He opened his mouth to say something but decided glaring at Papa’s back took precedence.  _ “My son?”  _

“It’d be quite the miracle if he wasn’t,” Papa teased without turning around. 

“Oh, that’s very funny.” When a follow-up response never came, Dad sat in Papa’s vacated chair with a sigh. To Henry, he said, “What was the matter, hun?” 

Henry shrugged. “Papa told me about what you saw on the news.” 

“Of course he did. Are you scared we’re going to get caught? You don’t-”

“No,” Henry corrected. “Not scared. I was worried about what was being said about us, what they knew. I don’t want to be babied anymore. I wanna know if we’re still in danger and how.” 

“Would it be corny of me to say you’ll always be my baby?” Dad asked with a pout. 

_ “Yes.”  _

Dad just laughed and leaned forward, pressing an embarrassingly loud, smacking kiss to Henry’s forehead. “Too bad. But I get it. You don’t want to be left out of the loop; I can understand that. Don’t know if I’m  _ happy _ about it. A lot’s changed, and I just wish…” Dad trailed off, eyes skittering away from Henry to stare at the wood grain of the table. 

There was a lot his father could be thinking and choosing not to say, but something about his expression led Henry to believe he knew exactly what it was. As loathed as Henry was to admit it, there was a sadness lurking in his father’s eyes that Henry had recognized as the same he’d seen in Agent Crawford’s—a mourning for innocence lost. Given that he almost never mentioned Henry’s lessons outside of the basement, Henry could only assume his Dad tried as best he could to pretend they never happened. 

Without saying anything—or sighing or rolling his eyes or anything else he felt tempted to do at the moment—Henry held out his arm, in what he hoped was a clear invitation. He was able to mentally count to three before he was enveloped in a hug and swiftly pulled from his seat. 

Instinctively, Henry let his head fall into the crook of his Dad’s neck, only to remember seconds before his nose perilously touched skin that it would be a painfully pointless endeavor. He managed to stop his momentum in time and simply rested his head on his father’s shoulder as he was held tightly, just below the worst of his bruising. 

“Can he still breathe?” Papa asked, tone irritatingly amused. 

“Yes,” Henry mumbled into his Dad’s shirt.

“If you’re sure,” Papa said. Henry cracked an eye open, and the expression he saw was fonder than he’d expected. Then again, Papa was always pleased when Dad was demonstrably affectionate with them, despite the fact it wasn’t an even a rare occurrence. Dad never held back on hugs or kisses or being openly loving, and the stress and trauma of the last few days had made them  _ more  _ frequent, not less. Lately, Dad seemed most calm holding the physical assurances that his family was safe, and Henry didn’t see a reason to deny him that. Although his bad arm  _ was _ getting a little crushed between them. 

Coming to his rescue, Papa placed a hand on Dad’s arm. “It’s probably time for Henry to take his night medication and get some rest. Is your shoulder hurting?: 

When Henry confirmed that it was, Papa quickly stepped away to retrieve his pills, along with a glass of water. To no one’s surprise, Dad didn’t relinquish his hold, merely made room for Henry to accept what was handed to him and take his meds. 

“I’ll take him,” Dad said, once that was done. 

_ I can take myself,  _ Henry mentally grumbled to himself. Papa didn’t even come to his defense, just happily kissed them both and wished Henry pleasant dreams before practically dancing out of view. When Henry raised no objection—he’d resigned to being babied to some degree, no matter what his parents claimed they were doing—and wrapped his good arm around his father’s neck for stability, Dad stood and carried him to the second bedroom, making Henry feel like he was practically Luca’s age. Although he supposed it would only be a few more years that either of his parents could carry him with this much ease. 

The door had been left partially open, so Dad was able to slip in silently. Abigail was still asleep in her bed, buried underneath more blankets than she probably needed. Henry hadn’t noticed it earlier, but it looked like she’d stolen quite a few of the throw pillows from the suite’s main room and piled them up on the bed. 

At least she’d left his and Luca’s alone. 

Since Dad didn’t want to wake either of the other two in the room, Henry wasn’t subjected to being tucked in or a lengthy parting. As soon as Henry was put down on the bed, Dad was out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

Next to him, Luca’s even breathing changed as he suddenly flipped over to face Henry.  _ Faker.  _

“Were you waiting for me?” Henry asked in a hushed voice as he laid down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the vague, shadowy shape of his brother’s head nod. “C’mere then.” 

Luca scrambled over the small expanse between them, fitting himself to Henry’s side and resting his head on his good shoulder. Henry was starting to suspect that maybe  _ personal space _ was just not a concept his family believed in anymore. 

As Henry laid quietly, waiting for his medication to kick in, he listened to Luca breathe, felt the rise and fall of his chest under his hand. 

“You’re still awake,” Henry whispered after some time, smiling a bit when his brother startled, then held his breath like being completely still would convince Henry he was mistaken. “I’m here. You won’t have any bad dreams.” Maybe that should get a night light, Henry thought. Could be the darkness was making these nightmares worse. 

Luca was quiet for a moment before stubbornly insisting, “You don’t know that.” 

Henry sighed, using his good arm to tug his brother closer. “Yes, I do. When have I ever been wrong?” He paused. “Don’t answer that.” 

The giggle Luca muffled into his shoulder made Henry grin wide enough to hurt, but it was hard to care about that when his brother was trying and failing to stay quiet for the sake of their sister a few feet away—not that she was snoring anymore, Henry noted. 

“You know how I’m so sure?” Henry asked, once Luca had stilled. 

“No.” 

“Because back there in the woods, except for when I was getting Dad, there was never a single moment where I wasn’t running to you. You know that? Not one second. So whenever you’re alone and scared, you gotta remember I’m gonna be looking for you. And I’ll always find you.”

Luca listened quietly, and Henry felt one of his small hands reach over and grab his that was poking out of the sling. While he moved slow and was careful, the grip was tight. “Were you ever scared?” 

If Henry wanted to boast a little, he could just say no. Luca would believe him. He could say that big brothers don’t have time to be scared, not when they have little brothers and sisters to protect. 

“Yes,” he whispered back, deciding Luca deserved honesty. “But I found you anyway.” 

That was enough to ease the turmoil keeping Luca awake, apparently, because it was only a few silent minutes later that Henry’s brother was definitely asleep. And drooling on his shirt. 

He’d dealt with worse. 

“Goodnight, Abi,” Henry said, as loud as he dared, cautious of disturbing Luca’s newfound rest. 

A heartbeat of nothing and then, “‘Night, Henry.” 

Despite knowing their whispered conversation would likely be repeated verbatim to their fathers sometime in the early hours of the morning, Henry didn’t care. The peace that had finally settled in his brother’s mind—that Henry hoped had settled, anyway—was what was important. 

The minutes ticked on, and Henry waited for his shoulder to shut up long enough for him to sleep, listening to his siblings as they dreamed. Abigail still snored the loudest, but so close to his ear, Luca’s were more prominent, like a whistling breeze that probably smelled like toothpaste. 

Henry had no recollection of falling asleep or dreaming, just the sensation of blinking one moment and opening his eyes to an empty bedroom, sunlight streaming out of the open curtains. That split second happened again, where his mind worked surprisingly fast for having just awoken, supplying him with all manner of horrible thoughts and scenarios, only to be cut short by a high-pitched squeal somewhere in the next room. 

“Daddy, put me down!” 

Henry sighed, stretching so that he filled as much of the bed as he could. Papa had said he could sleep the day away, hadn’t he? Henry decided to test that offer and closed his eyes. 

The next few days were a languid blue. He and Abigail spent more time together than they had in years, since her educational pursuits had kept her so busy lately. They took the animals for walks and hunted down a nearby shop for proper food to feed the duck. The Duchess, of course, tried to protest this change in her diet, which had mirrored Cephy’s closely—mostly leftovers and scraps from the regular meals Papa prepared. No one was sure such rich foods were good for the bird, however, and a quick online search confirmed it. 

She lasted two hours into her hunger strike before accepting the millet seed, dehydrated worms, and other goodies they’d bought for her. And because there was no way Luca’s beaked terror was the only one to get something special from the store, Henry also bought treats and toys for Cephy. It hadn’t seemed like a lot while they were shopping, but by the time they reached check-out, the cashier had given Henry a  _ look.  _

At least Cephy was thrilled when presented with the bounty.

Like they’d agreed, his parents stayed up in the suite for their entire stay, more than happy to laze around while Abigail took all the kids down to the nearby beach for an afternoon. It wasn’t anything like visiting the beach in the summer, the breeze from the sea far more chilling than pleasant in the cool fall air, but the water still shone brilliantly under the clear sky and the sand was soft and relaxing under their feet. Henry wished one of them had thought to bring a camera so he could capture Luca and Anna as they sat around absurdly covered in sunscreen and giant sunglasses, building lopsided sandcastles. Papa’s face when they tracked a small dune’s worth of sand into the suite later would have been a photo-worthy moment too, had such a thing been allowed. 

Chiyoh called the evening of their third night at the hotel, having run into no trouble at all during her trip. Before docking at the marina, she planned on restocking the boat for them to last a few weeks at sea, as well as put together a travel route, ensuring they stopped at trusted, discreet ports. 

Dad grumbled when he thought no one could hear him that he was more than capable of mapping out their course on his own. 

Best of all, while they were still puttering around the suite for another day or so, Henry wasn’t expected to do  _ anything,  _ not even food prep, so he laid claim to one of the plush sofas and watched Spanish cable for far more hours than either of his fathers approved of. When Abigail joined him—by sitting directly on top of his legs until he shifted to make room—and introduced him to telenovelas, he couldn’t be pried from the spot. He only vaguely understood a quarter of what was happening, but it was always  _ fascinating.  _

The time to pack up and get ready to meet Chiyoh came a lot sooner than Henry was expecting. He played up his soreness when the rest of the family was busy locating where all their belongings had drifted off to, earning him sharp looks from Abigail… especially when Papa had dropped everything he was doing to get him some ice for his shoulder and a few more pillows to support him on the couch. He tried not to smirk too obviously, watching Luca grouse as he picked up various personal detritus scattered throughout the suite. He was tasked with finding where all of Cephy’s brand new toys had gone because Paris had developed an irritating habit of stealing and hiding them. 

“Are you going to  _ do  _ anything?” Luca asked after marching over to stand between Henry and the television. 

Henry grinned around his mouthful of popcorn that Papa had been kind enough to pop for him—just for him—on the stove. “Nope.” 

Luca growled at him, balling up his fists and stomping even closer. Henry popped another piece in his mouth and chewed. Loudly.

Dad could see the fit brewing from across the room and rushed over to shepherd Luca away, citing a need for more help in one of the bedrooms. He looked at Henry over his shoulder, stern reprimand on his features. Henry mouthed  _ sorry _ at him. When Dad turned back around, Henry tried to see if he could throw a piece of popcorn in the air and catch it in his mouth.

He couldn’t. The look he received from Papa when the sticky popcorn tumbled onto the carpet was one of the most frightening things he’d seen in days. 

At the pet store, Henry and Abigail had managed to find a harness that actually fit Paris, so when the time came to head down to the dock, Henry somehow had  _ two _ leashes wrapped around his left hand and was eternally grateful that both animals had become used to one another. As fun as their afternoon at the beach had been, Henry had only touched the water with his toes before retreating further inland. He had no desire for a warring dog and duck to drag him into the frigid sea. 

They met Chiyoh up on the deck of the boat. She looked tired, which Henry supposed answered his question as to how much sleep she’d been getting. His parents told Abigail to take the rest of the kids inside to warm up, but as they passed, Henry stopped in front of Chiyoh. She paused in her recitation of the supplies that awaited them inside, and when she tilted her head in greeting to Henry, he thought there might’ve been a slight uptick at the corner of her mouth. 

“Thank you,” he told her. Papa had probably already thanked her over the phone, or would have later, but Henry wanted to tell her himself. “For helping. And taking care of us.” 

This time, he for sure saw a smile. “Protecting Hannibal is-” she stopped, glanced at the man in question. Whatever she was going to say, she discarded it. “You’re very welcome, Henry. You should get your… pets inside. I’m sure they’re cold.” 

Henry didn’t think so—they were both well-insulated animals—but he did as she suggested. Once inside, Luca ran over and methodically unfastened Paris’ harness, which was honestly impressive for such tiny, uncoordinated fingers. He lifted the duck up in his arms, more carefully and comfortably now with practice, and trotted away from Henry without a word. 

Dropping the leashes and harness on the nearest surface—knowing Papa would find and designate a proper place for them later—Henry led Cephy over to one of the living room’s armchairs, encouraging her to jump up and join him. 

She didn’t even headbutt him in the gut or his bruised ribs this time, a small miracle, and quickly curled into a ball on his lap. 

Abigail took Anna with her upstairs, and Luca remained with Henry. He’d found one of his books and sat on the floor, attempting to teach his duck to read. Soon his parents had finished whatever important business they were discussing with Chiyoh. The last Henry saw of her, Papa dropped the car keys into her hand, and she walked off, vanishing from view. 

Both of his parents went up to the helm with Abigail and didn’t come back down for quite a while. By the time they did, Luca was starting to complain about being hungry, even though they’d  _ just _ had dinner before heading out. 

Papa was informed of Luca’s dire state immediately upon coming downstairs—by Luca, loudly, several times—and somehow that meant Henry was roped into joining him in the galley to make dessert for everyone. The vacation really was over. 

The counters were still a mess of boxes and bags from Chiyoh’s additional provisions, but Papa cleared enough space for them to make Luca’s request of banana splits. Henry was tasked with prepping the dishes with their requisite bananas, which was a frustrating challenge mostly one-handed. 

“Did you enjoy our time in Spain?” Papa asked as he retrieved new gallons ice cream Chiyoh must have gotten for them. She was fast becoming his favorite honorary Lecter. 

“Sure,” Henry said, trying to concentrate on opening peels without turning the fruit within into mush. 

“I’m glad,” his father said. “How do you feel about the Caribbean?” 

Henry paused in his work, squinted up at his father, confused. “It’s… warm?” 

When Papa said nothing, merely moved around Henry to continue assembling the desserts, Henry blinked dully for a long moment until what he was being asked finally clicked in his mind. 

His face cracked into a large grin. “Sounds perfect.” 

♆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! Compared to the last fic, this was a sedate little story - and not just because our lead spends most of it asleep or drugged up... lol But I really wanted to explore the aftermath of what had happened in An Unexpected Guest, how the family starts to move past things, heal, and embark on their new life together. (Also, I never want to write a news article again.)
> 
> Next fic in this series will either be Henry's first time hunting at their new home or a time skip to when he's 16 and making some terrible, terrible choices. (Our boy never learns.) We'll see what I end up writing this NaNo! After that, there's the prequel of Hannigram getting together, as well as an unrelated omegaverse courting fic I'm working on featuring omega!Will. :D 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and left kudos or comments! <3
> 
> * * *
> 
> Beta’d by [Prose-by-Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Prose_By_Rose), [winedrunkwitch](https://winedrunkwitch.tumblr.com), and [anonymousEDward](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousEDward). ♥️
> 
> Let me know what you think & come say hi on [tumblr](https://katasaurus-rex.tumblr.com)!


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